Nineveh
by Aenigmatic
Summary: The mission: to prevent the Stargate from ever becoming operational. The target: Captain Samantha Carter, USAF. Jack O'Neill finds out that there is more than meets the eye in an assignment that would change his life. An AU story, set pre-series, with a strong S/J slant. Rated 'M/R' for strong language and sexual situations.
1. Chapter 1

**NINEVEH **

_Summary: An AU story. The mission: to prevent the Stargate from ever becoming operational. The target: Samantha Carter, USAF. Jack O'Neill finds out that there is more than meets the eye in an assignment that would change his life._

_Spoilers: Stargate movie, Children of the Gods (1x01) _

_Rating: M/R for language and sexual situations later on in the story._

_Disclaimer: Not mine. Snippets of dialogue have been taken from several transcripts and made to fit this story._

* * *

**Prologue**

**Underground Facility  
Area 51, South Nevada  
June 1995**

Death must have been instantaneous.

In a typical crash landing, the body's bones cannot but shatter upon impact, dissolving into a mangled mass of liquid and dust. It would also be burned beyond recognition in the resulting explosion.

This was no different.

It has been said that dead bodies tell stories. And in this case, the story is incomplete. Has been for decades.

The man stared at the tiny body through the protective glass case with no small measure of revulsion.

Half of the torso was charred, and partially fallen away at the hip socket. The other half that had been protected by a fire-proof suit had melted and then bonded to the flesh in the intense heat. The ridged, rotting flesh had been hurriedly but carelessly preserved so all that was left were wrinkled folds around a crushed skull. With hollowed-out eye sockets and half-severed limbs, the embalmed creature had taken on the grotesque appearance of a bog body.

It lay horizontal in a custom-made bullet-proof glass case, a perfect specimen that looked as though it had been taken out of an eighteenth-century cabinet of curiosities, crossed several time periods and got transported straight into a secure military facility.

He moved on. The next stop was probably the exhibit that intrigued him the most.

It was a mangled mass of a yet-unidentified metal, nearly a metre long with the strangest decorative carvings on its tip, found in the same twenty-kilometre radius of the previous display. The writings ran the length of its entire vertical side, breaking off abruptly where the tip had shattered into powder. Its smooth surface was cracked and badly scratched, but some parts of it that had remained intact shimmered a dull chrome and gun-metal grey under the fluorescent light.

It had quickly provoked endless scientific speculation on its function and design, its metallic composition still a mystery.

He had walked this corridor many times, and he knew the VVIP-tour of this secret facility like he knew the back of his hand. The sights have never failed to arouse an equal measure of awe and fear each time he saw those specimens. It was breathtaking as much as it was hideous.

It made _that_ need even more pressing.

"It's time," the man beside him murmured, seemingly just as transfixed by the sight before him. "Our spooks say it's close."

"I heard."

A pause. "We're sending someone."

"But the man's a mess," he argued, unconvinced. "Maybe we should get someone else."

"He's the best we've got," the other replied softly. "And he's the only one who can finish this cleanly."

"Sir, I don't think that you've realised the implications of do–"

"General, it's been discussed extensively. The rest agree."

"But we're talking about an officer who is at best, unstable and recently deactivated."

They studied the artefact intently and examined it from several angles, so that to all who looked at them merely saw two fascinated people bent over an exhibit.

"Nearly fifty years," he murmured.

"And the Earth's no less safe."

A long pause.

"Maybe that's what makes him the best choice for this," the man argued, unperturbed. "We'll give him ten days, slightly shorter than his usual missions. No more, no less."

"He might not come back." The statement was layered, and both of them knew it.

"But that was always a risk he knew," he said, ignoring the second implication.

"Maybe."

"He might roll it up. Or he might succeed."

"That's exactly what I'm saying, which makes him a throwaway."

"Either way, anything's possible. Duty before self – haven't you heard?" He chuckled dryly. "That much he knows too. He'll do it."

"And if he doesn't?"

The man turned and stared into the distance thoughtfully. "Then no one is indispensible, didn't you know?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 1**

**Lincoln Park  
Chicago  
7 September 1995**

Dusk was his newly appointed favourite time of the day, but the rush-hour crowd annoyed him as he wove his way impatiently through them, intent on reaching his destination within the appointed time.

It was always this way in crowded cities. The train ride had felt interminably long, and the people seemed particularly rude. He had never felt more dislike for small spaces and the feeling of being squashed up against several other people – some of whom clearly did not know the concept of a shower. It had brought back far too many unpleasant memories.

He alighted a few minutes later and tried to make his way out.

The narrow underground walkway was starting to feel claustrophobic and he increased his pace, eager to escape the crowd that swept into the metro in relentless waves. He ignored most of them, tucking his elbows close to his side and tried to sidestep those who walked too slowly for his liking.

The early-autumn air was already turning brisk as the man finally emerged from the tunnel. He stuck his hands in his leather jacket and inhaled a deep breath as he took a sharp right that would bring him to the nearest respectable suburb and to a park that lay adjacent to it.

It took him another ten minutes to reach his destination. The park was a small one and thankfully deserted at this hour, the last group of chatting mothers and their prams having only left a few minutes ago, as they hurried back towards home and dinner.

A glance at his watch informed him that he was nearly two minutes early. He took the nearest vacant bench and sat down heavily, absently toying with his jacket button while he waited.

It was harder to see in the rapidly deepening twilight, but the street lamps illuminated a figure clad in a dark-suit striding towards him.

Not the person he'd expected to see, and that was quite enough to arouse some suspicions.

The air beside him was gently displaced as his companion sat down next to him.

"Colonel O'Neill?"

"Depends on who's asking," he replied casually.

"Sir?"

He sighed. "Deactivated, Weston. A little piece of advice. Get re-assed to NASA. That's where all the action's gonna be."

"Colonel, the General sends his apologies. He wasn't able to see you in person today."

He looked at the messenger and smirked. "So he sent you of all people instead?"

"Sir, I…"

He interrupted before the man could go on. "Just give it to me."

"You have a new assignment, Sir."

He felt his gut clench involuntarily. There had been one that had left him in hospital for longer than he'd cared to remember, had caused more pain than he'd ever wanted to feel and had triggered a chain of events that had quite literally, ended his world and nearly his life.

Joining the military was like getting into a bad debt that you could never fully pay, he sometimes thought cynically.

This farce of a meeting was turning nerve-wrecking. Instead of the comforting isolation of the darkened playground, he suddenly felt hemmed in, as though the weight of the latest task had become a newly-fashioned military yoke around his neck.

"Oh, don't tell me," he scoffed dryly. "I'm shipping out on the next hop to the Middle-East? Or would it be Mogadishu? Or Srebrenica?"

Although it had been a while since his last major and disastrous one in Iraq, he had frankly no intention of revisiting that part of Earth any time soon. Not if he could help it at least. It was what his commanding officer had since promised when he was doped up to his ears and dead to the world in the Academy Hospital.

The Colonel turned his dark-eyed gaze to the discomfited man beside him and waved his impatience. "And? But? So? Therefore?"

"It's closer to home this time. Here," he said, gingerly extricating something from his breast pocket and held it out, "all that you need to know is inside."

Jack O'Neill did not move a muscle. When it became clear that he had no intention of doing – or moving – anything, the agent sighed inwardly and stood up.

"Consider yourself recalled to active duty. All the best, Sir."

A nondescript, pristine white envelope took the place of the departing figure on the playground bench.

The Colonel breathed a sigh of relief. He made no move to reach for it. Could he really do this now? Especially now when his judgement was in all likelihood compromised? When his thought seldom strayed further than the-

_Not going there, O'Neill._

With an annoyed sigh, he finally grabbed it, tucked it into the inner pocket of his jacket and left, walking away in the opposite direction that he had come.

The way back was equally irritating. Chicago's traffic congestions were grating on his nerves, accentuated by the vagueness of the memo and the oblique manner of its delivery. He had promised Sara to be out of the house in two weeks; instead he said his goodbyes in three days, moving into a small apartment that was thankfully located in a quieter suburb on the other side of town where he wouldn't have to bump into her coincidentally.

Despite the obvious reticence that he had shown Weston, there was a faint tingle of excitement that ran up his spine, a feeling that always accompanied the start of any mission. It was an emotion that he insistently clamped down; the recent run of events had already pointed out that he had no right to any positive sentiments.

By the time he got back, all he wanted was a beer. Flipping the lights on, he toed off his shoes and checked his answering machine. Trying to ignore that damn envelope was doing him no good; despite his constant grouses that he was being increasingly sent on near-impossible missions, there was a burning curiosity that wanted to know the reason for such a clandestine meeting in a suburban park.

Jack O'Neill knew he was a good soldier and leader. It was with easy confidence that he had led several teams into volatile situations in different parts of the world. He left no man behind – even though he had been left behind himself – and had somehow, against all odds, brought everyone back to their families. And for that, he considered each mission a success. His commanding officers through the years had relied on his ability to ask no questions but deliver the done deed.

But this one bothered him.

His assignments had always been given in highly sanitised, top-secret government locations, surrounded by armoured guards and eyes-only documents, often sanctioned by the highest-ranking chiefs in the military themselves.

He strode to the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of Jack Daniels from the liquor cabinet and sank down on his well-worn couch in the living room. Inadvertently, his gaze wandered to the framed picture of a boy who clutched a baseball bat like his most-prized possession.

The place was quiet. Too quiet. It was dark and uninviting when 'home' used to be warm and welcoming.

Jack swung his gaze away abruptly and took a long drink of the burning liquid, gritting his teeth against the burn. It wasn't something he could afford to brood about, not when he had barely managed to crawl up that dark precipice of guilt and overwhelming despair not too long ago. Now he hung on the edge of it, knowing that the slightest trigger could send him down that abyss easily once more.

Slowly, he removed the envelope and tossed it on the coffee table. He picked up the remote – _wasn't there a hockey game on?_ – and flipped through the channels half-heartedly.

There was indeed a game that was showing – a replay of the Detroit Red Wings against the Chicago Blackhawks that he would have given his truck away to see live.

With a jolt of realisation, he realised that he had actually bought the tickets nearly seven months ago. That was just how much he had anticipated that clash, until…

_Not there, O'Neill_, he warned himself, and settled to watch the replay until a referee's piss-poor decision a few minutes later caused him to nearly hurl his half-empty bottle against the wall.

Ten minutes later, he turned the television off, tossed the remote to an opposite chair and tore the envelope open. Inside was a ridiculously thin sheet of paper, hurriedly scribbled on and clumsily torn out of a larger notebook.

_Jack,_

_Your next one is different. _

_What you need is being prepared. _

_You know where to check for additional details._

He frowned slightly. The General hasn't even signed off on the note. Surely something that important would warrant a face-to-face discussion or a phone call? Had this even come from the General's office?

His home laptop was lying a few feet away, switched on and blaring a comical Simpsons screensaver. Ignoring it, he went into his bedroom, prying out its case that had been tucked securely under his bed. Within a minute, he had assembled a slimmer, second notebook from several discrete parts stowed in the laptop case's hidden, secondary compartment. He slid in an atypically-sized flash drive and quickly reprogrammed a part of its operating system to accommodate this technical anomaly.

Experience had made this action second-nature and he switched it on with an ease he knew wasn't supposed to have.

Assignments were rarely – or almost never – handed out this way. As far as he knew, covert operations were planned to the _nth_ degree, streamlined to the satisfaction of the most brilliant tacticians in the military then signed off by the President himself, who thereafter divorced himself from all knowledge of them. He'd been there too many times to know.

This one had to be different. It already bore the hallmarks of internal wrangling, especially if it came from some higher-up against another higher-up.

"Hurry up, dammit," he muttered in exasperation, tapping his fingers on the keys lightly as he waited for his access code to appear on the screen.

Logging into the program was at best, tedious. He went through several security systems and its encryptions, then linked his personal network to the exclusive pool of assignments that his team frequently received.

The program loaded when the connection was successful, its white and blue interface prompting for another password.

He entered his details, and scrolled down the list of the most recent cases in which he had some part to play.

It was impossible to ignore the latest one that sat in his personal inbox. The mission brief's details stood out starkly against its black background, and he couldn't help the flicker of unease when he saw its heading.

_07 September 1995_

_Recalled to active duty: Col. Jonathan J. O'Neill  
Mission timeline: 2 weeks  
For immediate deployment. _

_Neutralise target: Samantha Carter, Captain, USAF, service number 366349  
Location: Colorado Springs, Cheyenne Mountain Complex_


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 2**

**Colorado Springs  
9 September 1995**

"Have a good flight, sir."

The attendant nodded at his cobbled ID and handed it back to him. He nodded back briskly and made his way down the aisle of the plane, chucking his carry-on baggage in the overhead storage bin. The flight was merely half-full and he appreciated the lack of passengers near him.

In the end, it wasn't very difficult to pack a duffel bag and catch the next commercial flight to Colorado Springs, not knowing when he'd return – or if he ever would. Jack O'Neill was no fool; such operations fell outside the authority of the military and guaranteed him no security should any such mission fail. The high stakes involved in such activities and the fear of leaving his then-family bereft had been excellent motivating factors for him to succeed where others had fallen; now, he wasn't yet sure what he lived for.

Not since his son had shot himself with his own service weapon, not since his wife had walked out barely a month later, leaving an empty house filled with ghosts of the past whose malevolent whispers haunted him day and night.

He'd taken it as he thought a soldier should, even if had pushed him to breaking point. But somehow he still lived – existed, really. His lungs took in air on their own and his heart still beat out a tattoo against his ribs…and for that he felt wretchedly guilty, thinking that he had no right to outlive his dead son. In those months, swamped with suicidal thoughts, he could only remember spending drunken nights passed out anywhere in the house, torturing himself with imaginary situations in which he had somehow prevented his son from dying.

_If only he had stowed it away… if only he had left it at the base… if only he had not been outside… if only he had -_

If litany of regret.

_Stop! You're fucked, O'Neill, fucked beyond belief._

He still missed the both of them every goddamned second, but he was left without any shadow of a doubt that the marriage was unsalvageable. If the birth of Charlie had strengthened the ties between them, his sudden death had also left a chasm in their relationship too wide to bridge.

Sara had wanted – no, needed – to talk. She had needed the comfort of a husband, had needed to grieve together. All she got however, was an emotionally stunted man who drowned his sorrows in hard liquor all day in Charlie's room.

She had been ready to deal with her grief and had asked for couples' therapy. He had resolutely refused. She had begged and pleaded with him, exonerating him of his growing guilt on numerous occasions. Instead, he had clung to it like a death sentence on his own head.

He didn't do talking, didn't think that he would – _could_ – ever do so when his own heart had a hole in it. All that he felt and wanted to say would rise up his chest and die in his throat. He had made no sound when she had wept furiously and had turned to stone when she had paced the house in misery.

But for every night in the first week since she had walked out, Jack had found himself turning at the slightest sound, expecting her to be there, a chastising, indulgent smile for his efforts in trying to lead Charlie astray. Every time he had driven past a school, he thought he heard the excited cries of his son as the boy chattered a million miles a minute after a particularly good day in his classes.

Somewhere along the two-week mark, after the shock had worn off, he decided that penance would mean taking the gun that killed Charlie O'Neill and pointing it at his own head then pulling the trigger. It would be an apt-enough action – as twisted as it sounded – to pay for his own irresponsibility and alleviate the unrelenting guilt that scored his insides. After all, he knew the many ways to kill with a single gunshot; it was something he did often in his black-ops missions to declared enemies of the United States.

He's sat on Charlie's bed for hours, holding the gun in his hands and forcing himself to relive the happy memories that they had shared as a family.

Sara had never once tried to talk to him.

But somehow, that plan to blow a hole in his head never did materialise. He had put down the gun, left the room, grabbed a bottle of whiskey and crashed on the couch, but not before puking his guts out in the toilet while his wife finally thought to seek refuge with her own father a few hundred miles away in another state.

He hadn't bothered to stop her.

What he thought was once a rock-solid marriage was over sooner than he'd expected. And then he was both thankful and bitter that he was alone once more because it gave him time to brood and consequently drop deeper into that depressed, drunken haze.

Until now Jack hadn't been sure why he had lowered the gun when it was pressed against his own temple, his finger ready on the trigger. Was it only because he had heard Sara's heavy footsteps coming up the stairs past Charlie's room? Was it because he hadn't wanted Sara to deal with the useless mess he would have created had he died from his own gunshot wound? Or was he simply afraid to die in a manner that just didn't seem worthy of himself, or Sara?

Jack couldn't remember the next few months very well, the most momentous events only being the vague notion of getting himself deactivated and moving to Chicago in a half-hearted attempt to flee his own demons.

How many times had he staggered back drunk beyond his wits and woken up with no memory of even going to the bar a few blocks from his rental apartment?

It had taken a visit from Sara sometime in the last month for him to sober up. Sort of. Served with the divorce papers, he had been forced to confront just how much he had lost.

Not as though that had made him feel any better.

"Would you like something to drink, Sir?" The flight attendant's voice startled him embarrassingly out of his reverie.

Jack started to shake his head, but changed his mind immediately and asked for the strongest alcoholic beverage that she had on her cart. He tossed the shot of vodka back in a single gulp, craving the acrid, fiery burn as the liquid blazed down his throat.

He'd brought only the essentials as he usually did on all his missions: all his technical equipment, two small photos of Charlie and Sara, a worn wrist watch that had been a wedding anniversary present, some clothes and all that was necessary for yet another covert operation. There was very little he actually needed to survive, he'd realised that over the years, and now that the better part of his family's gone, he had even less to lug around. Whatever he would need – surveillance equipment and specialty weapons – would as usual, be taken care of at the location itself.

To his mild surprise, the rent of his Chicago apartment had been paid a year in advance thanks to his CO's manoeuvrings, and another motel room booked indefinitely for him in Colorado.

Jack's mind wandered again to his latest target: the young, beautiful and obviously brilliant Captain Samantha Carter who had obtained a string of degrees by the time she reached her mid-twenties. She was an astrophysicist, a regular overachiever with impressive piloting experience honed during Operation Desert Storm, now working in deep-space radar telemetry deep under Cheyenne Mountain.

He thought he knew an Air Force brat when he saw one.

The rest of his mission brief had stated in no uncertain terms that his target was to be neutralised in a manner that "_would draw no more attention than it needed to_".

Carter's record was spotless, and her accomplishments staggering. She could very well be the poster-girl of the USAF, the model officer and innovative scientist whose almost pedantic by-the-book behaviour made her stand out among her peers – her research alone had left them trailing in the dust.

Her enlistment in the Air Force was entirely voluntary after she had finished her PhD some years later, perhaps spurred on to fulfil the same ambitious career that her father, a two-star General, had after obtaining his wings. While Carter had limited command and field experience even after logging over a hundred hours in the Gulf War, well, certainly a lot less than him – where it seemed like his entire professional life had been spent in the field – but she had singlehandedly developed technology behind the scenes that probably kept the USAF ahead of their allies and enemies.

It didn't take him long to realise that there was no one like her in the USAF. No one as talented, or as capable. If such bright sparks like her had actually signed up, many of them were soon shunted to the fast track to NASA's programme. Instead, she was buried deep in her research underground.

So why wasn't she there, among the stars?

The more he read in her file, the more he was convinced that she was way too important a resource for anyone, or for any organisation for that matter, to cut loose. Only the latest part of her file was scrubbed; even he didn't have access to it…yet. But it was clear that the military needed her for something else they deemed more important that NASA. And yet, she didn't seem important enough to be taken out of the picture.

Apparently.

The reason his mission brief had given for taking her out had been vague; she had been classified as a potential security risk because of her progress in the research and technology development – or what appeared to be NORAD – deep under Cheyenne Mountain.

The mission brief had made it look like simple hit-and-run work. But he was operating as naked as a damned jaybird, without any cover or back-up in some high-stake operation that could easily go sideways.

Jack tried, not for the first time, to shake off the unease.

All of his previous missions had taken place overseas where he could choose to believe that the security of his country was compromised. There were more murky dealings going on under the table, and he was sure of it.

It just wasn't his place to ask more questions than he needed to. Jack O'Neill was a soldier, first and foremost, and his more important tasks lay in successfully carrying out his stipulated duties and getting his men home. Thinking along those lines had made it easier for him to leave questionable orders unquestioned and obey them. For most part.

But now, he was to neutralise one of their very own, possibly their very best, on home soil.

The mission brief hadn't sat too well on his shoulders.

The rental car was waiting for him as he stepped out of the airport and he headed to the motel, suddenly desperate for some shut-eye. He eyed his speedometer critically. The last thing he needed was to be pulled over by some unsuspecting cop for breaking the speed limit. Lifting his foot off the accelerator slightly, he turned onto the road that would lead him slightly out of the city.

His bedroom in Motel 6 was small with an even smaller bathroom. At least it was clean and offered some form of cable TV. It would do – he had, after all, been thrown into less than savoury places that he'd rather scrub from his memory.

Two hours later, he dragged on a black wig, hazel contact lenses and a baseball cap, stopping his car at the side of a disused industrial site not too far off from his motel.

An old, brown Ford was already parked in the corner of the site, a stocky man climbing quickly out of the driver's seat carrying a small wrapped package the moment he caught sight of Jack's rental car.

"Alan Jamieson?"

"Yup."

"I was told to give you this," he handed the package over and winked conspiratorially. "What'd you need that for, man? Wife, girlfriend going astray?"

"Nah, animal experiments," he retorted shortly, hoping that guy wasn't too involved in animal rights as a hobby. He slipped a wad of cash into the other man's hands and turned to walk back to his car. "Thanks."

"Hey, go easy on 'em, man!" The unsuspecting man yelled after him in worry.

It was time to get the hell out of dodge. His floater had been way too inquisitive and had too much potential to be a tree-hugger for his own good.

He threw off the wig in disgust as he steered the car away, swearing never to touch that stupid thing again despite some new regulations recently implemented about disguise and concealment among the upper ranks of the Special Forces soldiers.

The damn wig had made his scalp itch and those contacts were irritating his eyes. And he didn't even want to know how he looked.

Jack stopped the car again in a deserted parking lot when he was nearly fifteen miles away from the industrial site and rummaged through his duffel in the backseat. It didn't take him long to open the package, to assemble his own communication sensors and calibrate the chips so that it could transmit its findings to him at regular intervals.

He looked at his watch. It was time to get to a mall.

Twenty minutes later, he pulling into the parking lot, stopping briefly to pick up a weapons dead drop in a particular corner of the building. Quickly, he looked into the pack, seeing the box of lethal injections and biologically hazardous materials tucked snugly in a corner, then examined the typical and familiar range of weapons that he'd always requested on his team missions.

Soon after, he was circling Carter's neighbourhood slowly before finally stopping the car a few blocks away. Climbing out his rental, he slipped on yet another cap, then tossed the miscellaneous stuff from the dead drop into the trunk. The sunglasses came on and he strolled casually down the sidewalk down the street while whistling a tuneless ditty under his breath.

To any person who looked at him, he merely appeared as a typical but anonymous resident in a suburban home returning from a leisurely lunch.

And there it was.

Samantha Carter's modest rental house was the last house at the end of the road, sheltered by several overgrown trees on the sidewalk that bent so low such that their branches nearly obstructed her front walkway.

No one was about in the quiet afternoon. Her neighbours' blinds were shuttered against the strong sunlight and their fences were high enough to suit his purposes. There was no car parked in her driveway and her windows were shut tight: there was no one home.

Some small sound on the left caught his attention.

A rather large orange tabby had come around from her backyard to sit on her front mat, staring unblinkingly at the intruder.

He glanced at the cat and noticed the small concrete pathway that curved around the side of her house and into her backyard. Taking a quick look around, he followed the pathway, the cat tailing him halfway, and came up to her back door.

Pulling on his gloves and prying her door open without damaging the lock was easy. He stepped in and removed his shoes, pocketed his Swiss army knife and took in the clean, cool spaces of the kitchen and the small living area. Her windows were closed, decorated by heavy, dark curtains that had shielded the interior from prying eyes.

There was a faint, lingering smell of lemon and vanilla that sliced through the slightly musty air. It tingled his nostrils, a subtle reminder of a feminine presence that inhabited the place. Evidently, she hadn't been home in some time.

Other than the potted plants that lay withered on her kitchen counter, everything else was…unnaturally pristine even for a military officer: the cushions on the couch were arranged neatly, the meagre collection of crockery carefully stored in the kitchen cabinets, the carpeted floor vacuumed to near-obsessive spotlessness. A small, solid pinewood bookshelf lined with scientific journals stood propped against the wall where her telephone and answering machine were.

Crouching down, he slipped a miniature device under her couch and attached a smaller one into one of the cracks underneath her kitchen counter, then calibrated those with his hand-held scanner and receiver.

He moved into her bedroom, noting the fastidiously-made bed, its plain white sheets and the surprising lack of hair products and cosmetics that lined her dresser.

Another device affixed under her bed. Another one calibrated.

A lone strand of blond hair lay on her pillow. He removed his tweezers and placed it between two plastic sheets, then pocketed the sachet.

Having established the wire tap and trace devices, he took a last glance around and left the same way he entered, through her backdoor, taking utmost care to lock it the way he found it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 3**

**Cheyenne Mountain Complex  
Colorado Springs  
9 September 1995**

Deep in the bowels of Cheyenne Mountain Complex, Captain Samantha Carter sat in her laboratory perusing her folder containing all the details of a giant, grey ring that stood in the middle of a three-storey high space. She debated going into the commissary to get yet another steaming cup of coffee, but decided against it, tired of its less-than stellar brew.

Academic books and publications on astrophysics and wormhole theory littered the workbench haphazardly as a computer blinked its findings on the stellar structures of the Milky Way and Earth's atmospheric readings every hour. The inch-thick stack of printouts sat on her desk next to her to which she returned to ruffle through approximately every twenty minutes. On the left, a pile of reports from her science and technical team grew by the hour.

She rubbed her tired eyes and took a sip from her now-lukewarm cup of coffee, secretly wishing that she had listened to General West's stern advice to leave the mountain for at least three days.

"Sam?" A soft voice floated through her exhaustion.

She looked up abruptly and winced immediately, knowing what was coming.

"I thought I said that I didn't want to see you here until Monday."

"Catherine, I know, but I…," she faltered, not knowing how to continue without embarrassing herself. "I just thought I couldn't just go back, not when there's so much more to do here than at home anyway," Sam finished lamely, praying that this line of conversation would end there. She winced, then thought that perhaps a more offensive approach would work better. "You're still here yourself, Catherine."

Dr. Catherine Langford stood at the threshold of the lab, her white hair contrasting starkly with an all-black get-up. She cut a striking figure despite her advanced years; there was a maternal strength that shone in her eyes when she regarded the younger woman and a equal hardness that emerged when she fought against several military decisions that she felt were detrimental to her research.

"Samantha." Just that single word was enough to make her cave.

"Look, Catherine," she feebly compromised. "I promise I'll go as soon as this latest reading is printed and filed."

Catherine stood her ground, contemplating the younger woman before her. "I'm just going to the commissary for a drink. Would you like to come with me?" There was something in her voice that warned Sam not to decline that invitation.

She considered Catherine's suggestion or rather, her veiled order. Before she knew it, she was rounding the lab table and strolling to the mess hall with her mentor eagerly in search of blue jello.

They took a table in the far end of the dining hall that gave them a modicum of privacy, even though there was very little competition for tables at 0515hrs.

Only when they had taken a few sips of their steaming drinks did she muster the energy to speak again.

"I've found something, you know," Sam revealed tiredly.

Catherine sat up suddenly, her posture ramrod straight.

Sam gave a short, sharp laugh. "Before you ask, no, it's nothing really related to the dialling program. Or that huge grey hunk of a metal ring."

Catherine glared at her. "God, Samantha, that was –"

She grinned briefly at that deliberate deception and continued, "We have a record of atmospheric readings and non-ionising radiation samples for a period of six to eight months now. I've tried refining the data to separate the frequencies by which they come through while keeping in mind electron excitation, and correlated them with certain energy signatures in deep space – or at least within the surroundings of Earth and the moon."

Catherine grimaced into her tea, glancing at her watch for good measure. "Sam, I'm not going to pretend I understood everything."

Sam tried again, wondering if the scientific explanation was testing the older woman's patience. "Essentially, there has been a short-term increase in zodiacal light in the past couple of months or so at random periods of time…it's actually a kind of luminous emittance caused by the interstellar dust that drifts by the Earth's exosphere. Normally, it's so faint that the naked eye can't see it, especially with the amount of light pollution. This time, the emittance has spiked through the charts at least a few times in the past months. I'm surprised no one else noticed the increase. But then again, I only realised because I looked through the details of the printouts earlier."

"Is this unusual?" Catherine turned concerned eyes to her.

"Yes, no, I don't really know," she heaved a frustrated sigh. "I've asked for several close-ups of the exosphere from NASA, but there's been nothing yet. That being said, the channels of communication between us and NASA could be better, I think."

"What does this mean for us?" Catherine looked at the weariness that had replaced the excitement in Sam's eyes, and not for the hundredth time, wished that the young woman would spare a care for herself more often.

Life hadn't gone too well for this particular Carter, having lost her mother so long. After that, it had been college, grants, early graduation, back to college and then getting into the military for a reason she never did quite understand. Samantha Carter had told her that much, and only under the influence of copious amounts of alcohol on one of their rare nights out.

Sam sighed and poked at her blue jello. "I'm not too sure. Now that we've sort of forged a closer working relationship with NASA, I've been receiving several data bursts from them about the anomalies in the atmosphere that their satellite and their ships have captured. We've got snapshots of the galaxy that NASA has sent us, but these don't look any more unusual than the ones we've received in the past. But I'm dealing only with data and no visuals, so there's not much to go on with here."

"What about asking your research team to look a little deeper into it?" Catherine suggested.

The fork speared a blue square, then moved the wobbly piece around the circumference of the glass bowl.

"You've got no argument from me there. But we really don't have much to go on. And not many of them are that hung up on a side project that doesn't seem to lead to a place of scientific worth. They're convinced that anomalies happen when volatile meteoric substances react in the mesosphere, the results of which could be a cause of this phenomenon," Sam replied wearily as she finally took a mouthful of the jello.

"You'll get it. You always do," Catherine replied feelingly as she took a sip of her drink. She had no doubts of her own that Samantha Carter would always come through. That the strength of character and the persistent stubbornness that she had probably inherited from her father would see to it. Her regular tendency to break into long scientific explanations that most people wouldn't understand was a trait that Catherine found more endearing than annoying, and she was used to the near-manic obsession with work that Sam displayed with alarming regularity.

"Thanks for that vote of confidence, Catherine," Sam smiled wryly. "I've yet to go through the data that we've collected from the past year, in fact, I'm not even sure if there's any national record of such readings that date back, what is it? Twenty years? Fifty years? Even so, I don't know where to take this, because it could just be remnants of light particles that react in a certain way that we don't know about."

"I'd like to tell you that it'll sort itself out, but things here don't exactly work the way we want them to," Catherine reminded her.

"Yeah, I know. The perks of working in a top-secret base, huh?"

For several minutes, they sat there, cradling their own cups, lost in their own thoughts as the minutes ticked by to signal the coming new day of work. Not that it made a difference deep underground, where the lack of natural light and recycled air tended to wreak havoc with sleep patterns, eliminating the boundaries between work and time-off.

For all the progress that had been made on the grey ring that stood majestically in front of the briefing room's glass windows, the final breakthrough – the discovery of the seventh symbol needed to activate the orifice – seemed elusive just when they'd appeared to be on the verge of history in the making.

It was another thing to be glum about.

"Will you be letting General West know of these findings?"

"I'd like to do a bit more research first. If something more concrete comes up, you know I'll be the first one knocking on his door," she told the older woman, stifling a yawn behind a cupped hand.

"Well," Catherine finally stood up. "I think it's time for some rest. You too, Sam."

That tone brooked no argument. But she thought she'd try anyway.

"I will. As soon as I –" she bit back her next words contritely upon seeing Catherine's disapproving glare. "I think I'll be heading back to my quarters."

"I'll hold you to that."

It was a good thing that she didn't always keep her promises, well, not immediately, she thought as she watched Catherine walk out of the mess hall. She stood up and headed to her own lab a few floors down, carrying a fresh cup of takeaway coffee.

The sheer excitement that had initially overtaken her upon signing the non-disclosure contract had faded into a lingering awe, the science of which had overwhelmed her and sent her brain into overload. But it was also a project that was too big for her to screw up, all too important for her career and an entire dream come true ever since she had stepped foot into college declaring Physics and Engineering as her double majors.

Leaving the Pentagon where she had been studying the theoretical physics of wormholes for this particular assignment was actually more than a dream come true. It offered her a blank slate professionally and personally and she had never been more grateful for the timing of her transfer.

And it had done her worlds of good.

Free from the ever-hanging shadow of General Jacob Carter's own ambitions for his daughter and from the unpleasant, controlling and occasionally-abusive behaviour of a very forgettable ex-fiancé, her weekends and time-off – should she wish to take them – were finally, finally her own with which to do as she pleased once more.

What she had not expected was the burgeoning friendship between her and Dr. Catherine Langford, the civilian leader who oversaw the running of the project alongside the Air Force's military presence in this endeavour. If she had hugely admired Catherine's contribution to science and archaeology, she was largely unprepared for the spontaneous downtime dinners – albeit mostly taken in the mess hall – and the easy camaraderie that had developed between them; these unofficial meetings had only served to strengthen what was fast turning into a surrogate mother-daughter relationship. Catherine had partially filled a void that her own mother had left so long ago, and it was only now that she realised how much she could have relied on a maternal guiding hand as she had been struggling through the social-awkwardness and the emotional vicissitudes of teenagehood.

And now the mystery of the grey ring had consumed her life for years – honestly speaking, it was quite literally also Catherine's entire life as well – and she wasn't about to give up on it, not when they were so close to starting another chapter in mankind's history.

Unknowingly, her feet had taken her to another research lab that housed the cover stones. She eyed the millennia-old rock that hung in that two-storey storage space, chipped and worn off in parts, but sufficiently intact for anyone to make out a visible line of hieroglyphics carved into its inner track.

_Time million sky/ Ra Sun God/coffin forever to eternity/Door to heaven_

Those phrases didn't really make any sense.

But those word fragments had at that time, seemed so arcane, so extraordinary that she'd committed it to memory the first time she saw it.

The multiple erasures of the translation on the blackboard were testament enough to the frustration of the academics who still struggled with the inflexions and declensions of a long-extinct language. She had forgotten how often it had led to many arguments that had begun with several differing interpretations of the nuances, thereafter straying into Egyptian funerary rites, their religious beliefs and the function of the pyramids.

Catherine had said that she had spent hours poring over her father's notes. Not that they had helped much, seeing as the imprinted language was a mix of Ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics and…something else. Some sort of writing that hadn't really matched the script of the early proto-languages. There was something indecipherable in their order or in the ideograms that had thrown her off. When her father had discovered it in the sands of the Giza Plateau in 1928, she had said that he had been convinced that ancient Egyptian culture was a lot more advanced than most people believed it to be.

He was partially proven right when Catherine's continuing work after the war proved that the other form of writings were in fact, unique glyphs that traced the shapes of several constellations in the Milky Way.

Six symbols on the cartouche, six star constellations.

Surely the Egyptians hadn't been hung up on the night sky for the sake of stargazing, or at least not hung up enough to insert the patterns of the stars on a mysterious cover stone.

It had to have some other meaning that still eluded all of them.

The clear night sky had shimmered with the brightness of celestial bodies on her recent solo camping trip in the Colorado mountains, bringing to memory the patterns of the stars whose names were born out of the sensibilities of the ancient imagination.

The Ancient Egyptians had done the same thing. They had seen patterns in the heavens that resembled people, animals or common objects, joining the dots in a unique order until a particular pattern emerged, forming a picture that told a story.

Or could it have had a more prosaic purpose…to record…an address of sorts?

Sam hadn't realised that she had started running to her lab, still holding the long-forgotten cup of coffee in her left hand. She picked up the duster, hurriedly erasing three-quarters of her mathematical calculations on the white board before sketching out a three-dimensional cube and marking a position in its centre.

An address.

A destination.

Six points to determine a location anywhere within the cube.

She dotted the centre of each surface, and drew lines through them, watching them converge in the centre of the three-dimensional space.

But to reach that three-dimensional space…did it mean…?

Tentatively, her shaking hand extended the line from the middle of the cube to the centre of the board, repeatedly marking the end of her line with a small 'x'.

Her cup of coffee made contact with the floor, the styrofoam cup forgotten in her shock, spreading brown rivulets on the concrete like the spread of a river's tributaries.

The dark liquid splattered her shoes and the lower part of her pants, thankfully missing her numerous stacks of folders. It was entirely possible that she didn't notice the wetness nor the heat from the scalding coffee.

Six points in a three-dimensional space to determine an exact location, a destination in space…but to get there, a _seventh_ point was needed – the seventh point that would outline a course to a position from Earth….

And there it was.

The point of origin.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 4**

**Cheyenne Mountain Complex  
Colorado Springs  
9 September 1995**

She swore that she had stopped breathing. Then her body's natural reactions took over; she gulped lungfuls of recycled air, knowing that the sheer thrill of discovery had her momentarily dizzy and breathing hard.

Three weeks ago, she had been fruitlessly struggling trying to make sense of the stars – a combination of astrophysics and astronomy – that had left her feeling as though she had repeatedly hit an intellectual brick wall. Now Sam realised, it had all been a short lull in the action.

Catherine had to be the first to know, the first one with whom she wanted to share that triumph.

And then she halfway to the officers' quarters before she belatedly realised that the civilian leader was probably asleep, taking her very much-needed rest after pulling that same all-nighter as she did. Torn between wanting to share her discovery with Catherine and reporting her finding to the General, she decided that Catherine could wait for a while.

Sam headed back to her lab, pulling several stacks of reports and a marker and turned in the direction of the General's office.

The control room was relatively empty of personnel, running on a skeleton crew that did not do much more than maintain the integrity of the systems.

"Morning, Walter," she asked cheerfully. "Is the General around?"

Walter Harriman, like her, seemed to be always around, having built a reputation for being a small but unwavering pillar of administrative support to any General he served under. He eyed her with a measure of trepidation; a glowing, jubilant Captain Carter was often equated with a scientific breakthrough, which also meant, a long, scientific briefing to the technical crew that lasted way into the night.

"No, Ma'am," he said just to see her face fall in disappointment. "In fact, I think General West has left for Washington for a few days only a while ago. Colonel Reynolds is second-in-command of the base at the moment. Would you like to see him instead?"

Talk about bad timing. She sighed and ran her hand through her tousled hair.

"That's…probably not necessary. I'll just wait till he returns. Thanks, Walter," she said, looking like the wind had been taken out of her sails, turning to return to her quarters.

A few more days.

On hindsight, it was a better idea.

It would give her more time to search for the actual seventh symbol now that she was certain it existed. Satisfied with the way things were progressing – albeit a tad too slowly for her –, she finally thought of returning home for a day or two, thinking that her plants needed some attention and her house needed airing. Her fridge was empty and a trip to the nearby supermarket was in order.

Maybe she would take that enforced break after all.

She took slightly longer than usual to leave the base after showering, signing out at 1000hrs after checking that Catherine was still asleep, squinting in the bright sunlight as she headed out of the mountain. Her laptop lay on the seat next to her, with a couple of astrophysics journals perched on top of it. She would call Catherine from home later.

The supermarket was predictably crowded at the end of the weekend as families rushed to get their week's supplies over and done with. She looked at the interminably long queues and walked straight back to her car, where a takeout was sounding like a better and better idea.

Schrödinger was waiting by the front porch when she next stepped out of her vintage vehicle. She gave him a few gentle strokes down his back, petted his head and he wound his way around her heels for a bit, entering the house with her.

The silence was palpable, but common for a single woman living alone, and the air too musty for her liking. She threw all the windows open, and tried calling the base for Catherine. After going through several security barriers, Walter came on the line and told her in no uncertain terms that Catherine had just left the base for her own home. Suddenly tired of the unintended game of hide-and-seek, and with the adrenaline of her earlier discovery wearing off, she slumped into the soft cushions lining the couch and was sound asleep within a minute.

* * *

**Samantha Carter's residence  
Colorado Springs  
9 September 1995**

The shrill ring of her telephone startled Sam into awareness. Sleepily she realised that she was at home, and had fallen asleep on the couch as the last fading rays of the sun peeked through the gaps in her curtains.

"Carter."

"Miss Samantha Carter? This is Memorial Hospital Central calling. You've been listed as the next of kin of a Dr. Catherine Langford. She is now in surgery and has asked for you to be here. "

She sat up in shock, blinking the remnants of sleep out of her eyes. "I'll be right there."

In the tense drive to the hospital, she could only think of the worst – that Catherine was…

She was running down the corridors of the A&E department in under twenty minutes, skidding to a stop at the reception desk.

"I'm looking for Catherine Langford….my name's Samantha Carter. She's been in an accident. Can I see her please?"

But the nurse was already moving, ushering her into the doctor's office.

"Miss Carter, please."

She walked in to see a petite brunette standing in the tiny office, studying several X-rays that were pinned against a lit screen.

Her shoulders stiffened, bracing for a blow that would come from the doctor's lips any second.

"Miss Carter? I'm Dr. Janet Fraiser, Catherine's surgeon and doctor."

"Actually, it's Captain. I'm military." She studied the other shorter woman before her, strangely reassured by the doctor's calm manner. It had been shortly after her mother's death that she'd discovered hospitals and funeral homes made her nervous.

The doctor seemed surprised by that unnecessary revelation; she raised her brows but said nothing in response.

"So, what happened?"

"Catherine Langford fell down the steep stairs that led to her house as she was going home. A stranger found her and brought her to the hospital," Frasier explained, not mincing her words. "I'm not going to lie to you. She's suffered a very, very hard fall. This has dislocated her spine after the high-impact collision and given her advanced age, I'm not sure what it'll take for her to regain any movement. She might have been fit for her age, but it's pretty much impossible for anyone to recover immediately after such a grievous injury."

Sam inhaled sharply. It was worse than she'd expected, but –

"Unfortunately, that's not all," the doctor cut in again and took a deep breath herself. "There's a serious head injury that we're also looking at, where her head hit the ground. Her left skull is fractured and there's some swelling in the brain. From what I can see in the X-rays however, the broken skull fragments have not penetrated or compressed brain tissue."

Cautious relief surfaced in her consciousness, a heavy load lifting off her chest.

"And that's…good news then?"

Frasier didn't give her a straightforward reply, launching instead, into an explanation that made her eyes widen in panic. "Because of the numerous injuries that Catherine has sustained, we are not able to take care of all her wounds at once. Earlier, we started to decompress, reduce and stabilise the spinal structure but she has slipped into a coma. In fact, we use the Glasgow coma scale to evaluate the conscious state of a person, based on his or hereye opening, verbal responses, and motor responses. These criteria are evaluated independently according to a rank order that indicates the level of consciousness and degree of dysfunction. Right now, she is scoring a one to two for each category."

Sam sank into a chair gratefully, avoiding the doctor's intense gaze.

Was it only twelve hours ago that she and Catherine were having a drink and a snack in the mess hall? And only a few hours since she'd discovered what might have been the pinnacle of Catherine's work?

"Catherine's been placed in intensive care and will be there for some time," the doctor interrupted her thoughts. "You can see her, of course, but visiting hours are limited, and I'm going to need you to suit up. Her immune system is incredibly weak and will not hold up under any infections," Frasier said gently. "I know this must be a shock to you, and for what it's worth, I'm sorry."

She nodded numbly, feeling as though all words had left her mouth.

"Are you her next-of-kin?"

"No. We're…we're colleagues actually, but we're close." She worked her dry mouth and paused, looking up at the doctor. "She hasn't any family around, and mine's too far away to be of any consequence."

Frasier nodded sombrely. "I'm glad Catherine has you then. She's going to need all the help and support she can get."

* * *

**Colorado Springs  
12 September 1995**

There was no sign of improvement in Catherine's condition several days later, although the doctor had warned about the unpredictability of traumatic head and spinal cord injuries. Sam had gone to base in a blurry haze for the few days, leaving in the late afternoon to visit Catherine in the ICU.

General West had been shocked by Catherine's accident and immediately insisted on her taking more time-off. She didn't know who was more surprised when she had agreed without any argument, spontaneously issuing a request that she would like to work a nine to five shift until Catherine's condition stabilised, also delaying her decision to see him about the seventh symbol until she knew exactly what it correlated to.

As far as she was concerned, the project had suffered its greatest loss in the form of Catherine. Her quiet but firm leadership had steered it to where it was today and her resourcefulness in obtaining highly sought-after information had amazed even the unflappable West.

It took her a moment to realise that she was thinking of Catherine as though she were already gone.

And now she was making her way to Catherine's house with the intention of cleaning it out as a favour for a friend. It gave her something to do other than futilely pushing aside the constant worry that had been plaguing her for days, and she found that the fairly steep walk up was sufficiently tiring but refreshing for her frazzled nerves.

Catherine Langford lived alone in an exclusive, affluent suburb built into the hillside and her house was built far up the incline, connected to the main road by a series of winding steps and a one-lane street that permitted only a single car through at a time. Having decided a while ago that her eyesight was too poor for her to drive any more, she had arranged for a driver from the base to send her home most evenings, leaving her at the base of the steps for her daily climb and exercise up to her house.

Slightly breathless after the climb, Sam let herself in, casting an appreciative eye over Catherine's tastefully furnished abode. An African tribal mask hung next to a Persian wall rug; dozens of photos detailing archaeological digs around the world were placed on as many spare surfaces as possible. The organised mess that characterised Catherine in her research at the base was similarly present in her home, as books littered only a specific corner of the home.

She smiled fondly at Catherine's unwavering enthusiasm for her discipline as she gently fingered the pages of the Ancient Egyptian references books that still lay on the dining table.

A flash of yellow.

The yellow corner of a post-it note that looked incongruous in the white pages of the books. Half-buried under a book at the far end of the table.

She walked around the corner and pulled it out from under the weight of the books. Catherine's usual elegant handwriting was near-unrecognisable, scribbled either in extreme excitement or extreme haste.

_Dr. Daniel Jackson  
Uni. Chicago, post-doc fellow, Arch. dept  
(773) 702-1222_

Not anyone that Catherine had ever mentioned.

Was Dr. Jackson an acquaintance of hers? An ex-colleague? It didn't seem to make any sense; Catherine had given her entire life to furthering her father's discovery. Or had she?

There was quite a bit that she hadn't yet revealed, especially about several parts of her life in the 1940s to the 1960s. Like her, Catherine didn't always go around much; the last trip she'd taken was to a symposium on Ancient Egypt in New York a while ago, something that she had merely described as a complete bust.

Sam took a closer look at the chapters of several books that had been tagged. They were old, their pages yellowed and fragile, hardbound and heavy.

_The Art of the IVth Dynasty_

_A Golden Age: The Old Kingdom_

_Plans of the Pyramid Complex_

_Sun-Temples and the Ascendency of the Egyptian god Ra_

_Mud and Brick: The Building Blocks of Ancient Egypt_

_Glyphs and Grammar of Ancient Egyptian_

_The Literary Language of the Old Kingdom_

Lying somewhat askew of the pile of books was another crumpled piece of paper that looked as though it had been written in pencil and erased over many times. Peering closer, she could make out several words imprinted too hard to fully erase.

_A thous- years? A Mille-years_ – crossed out and erased.  
_A million years into sky _– crossed out and erased_.  
A million years into the sky. Ra ascends. The ascension of Ra. Ra in the sky _– erased over a few times.

A million years into the sky is Ra.

There weren't any hieroglyphs that corresponded with the English translation, but it sounded too much like an echo of the cover stone deep down in Cheyenne Mountain.

In a flash, she understood. Catherine had been trying for a more precise translation of those glyphs.

_Time million sky/ Ra Sun God_

**_A million years into the sky is Ra._**

More understandable, less awkward but still cryptic. Dismissing it briefly as a fanciful but poetic vision of the Ancient Egyptians, she tried to make out the rest of the words with increasing difficulty.

**_sealed and buried for all time  
_**not _coffin forever to eternity_

And that was that. The last phrase, the 'door to heaven' was presumably a way into the Egyptian Afterlife, and a non-contested phrase because the writing stopped there, the paper torn exactly where the last, corresponding translation was supposed to be. Egyptian mythology was an area in which Sam would readily plead her ignorance, but it was clear that Catherine had been unsatisfied with Myers' translations of the hieroglyphics on the cover stone; neither was she convinced of the congruity of the ring device's placement among the Egyptian ruins.

Over the years, Catherine's research autonomy had been increasingly curtailed by military presence; her difficulty in procuring experts in Ancient Egyptian culture grew as the Air Force's non-disclosure agreement tightened the flow of knowledge and information that could have revolutionised the academic world and overturn existing theories. If she had turned to other sources that were beyond military jurisdiction, it wouldn't be entirely a surprise.

What role then, was Daniel Jackson to play – or had already played – in this?

Catherine hadn't said a word about it to her at all. Fighting the slight hurt, she thought back to that day when she'd discovered the need for a seventh symbol – the point of origin – and her excitement in needing Catherine to be the first in line to know.

Her original reason for visiting Catherine's house long forgotten, she stuffed the books into her bag, shoving the precious piece of paper and Daniel Jackson's contact details in her pocket then left.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 5**

**Motel 6  
Colorado Springs  
12 September 1995**

It was increasingly clear to him that Samantha Carter didn't have a life.

Five days of watching her comings and goings from his car, doing that black-bag job on her house, tapping her conversations and following her from a distance had sardonically led Jack to that conclusion.

She spent most of her time on base and when she was away from it, carted her work laptop around and stayed in her dining room finishing whatever she could. Sometimes she carried a large number of books around with her, paging through them with an intensity that made her forget her meals. Consequently, he'd counted the number of takeaways that she'd done, watching in amusement as her choices ran from pizza to Chinese and back again. She would go to bed for a number of hours that were less healthy than for a woman her age, and get up early to drive straight to the base – a process that was lathered, rinsed and repeated such that he wondered if he had gotten her identity mistaken after all.

Catherine Langford's injury however, had lessened the number of hours that she worked per day, and as far as he knew, she spent all her spare time with the comatose patient. She had cleaved herself to the older woman, and from what he could see, had already fostered a relationship that went beyond work concerns.

More significantly, Langford's involvement in the program and her subsequent accident had thrown a spanner into the works, adding a further complication to what had initially looked like a simple assignment from the higher-ups. That a civilian had been injured simultaneously around the time he was expected to fulfil his mission hadn't sat too well with him.

It had fuelled his determination to discover more surrounding that hazy mystery that existed beneath the mountain.

There was something big inside Cheyenne Mountain, more important than the laughably, unbelievable cover of deep-space radar telemetry. He'd uncovered the presence of a top-secret facility in operation while running a diagnostic on the make-up of its security systems, exploiting a little-known loophole in the military database that he'd found using the anti-electronic beam device that had been thrown in with the dead drop stash. Initially following the disused electronic footprints of several hacker groups then diverging his search paths, he had breached several encrypted systems while trying to cover his own digital trail. It had taken a lot of time but that had finally allowed him to install a miniature probe that would tap into parts of the Captain's computer. As the program did a continuous job of working out the complex calculations needed to uncover what really was going on in the mountain, he had set out to unravel all that Carter was.

Which didn't seem to be much so far. Her days consisted of work, work and more work where she disappeared under the mountain for the whole time, with added hospital visits thrown in. She didn't date, nor did she meet anyone else for drinks. But to be fair, it hadn't been a normal work week for Carter.

Involuntarily, he clenched his fist against his head despite knowing it was hopeless trying to stop what was going to be the beginnings of a pounding headache. He had survived on a lot less sleep before.

He was wading into deeper waters, much deeper in than where he'd like to go. In his previous assignments, it had been a lot clearer where he'd stood. It wasn't in his nature to know his targets personally and what they did or didn't do. Surveillance had normally been restricted to checking out the security borders and personnel; taking them out eventually had simply been a task to complete – a mathematical calculation of sorts that balanced the risks against the gains. Even though it hadn't been this way for a while, neutralising a nameless and faceless target – an effective distancing method – had helped him fall asleep dreamlessly at night.

He sent a quick message in Morse to the command centre, using a tiny program set up in a segmented part of his hard drive.

_Target located. Surveillance set-up successful. _

Logging-off from the program, he stood up from the edge of the motel bed where he was sitting. From the very beginning, this assignment was dubious at best and the method of delivery too suspicious for his liking. The diminished number of assets or bridge agents who typically appeared at appointed times for updates compounded his doubts.

Jack fingered the small vial that had lain in his pocket from the very beginning, thinking about the amount of time that was needed for the hazardous liquid to turn deadly the moment it was ingested or injected.

Five days into the operation. He could afford to be patient. Now, it was time to see what Carter was up to.

* * *

**Memorial Hospital Central  
Colorado Springs  
12 September 1995**

Her DNA trace had revealed that she was yet again in the hospital.

Catherine Langford had only just been moved out of ICU into a private ward, comatose with an unknown chance of survival. Carter had apparently wanted to be there for the transition.

He stood at the side of the door for a few minutes, holding the newspaper in his hand and turning the pages while listening to her talk to the unmoving figure on the bed about inane, random subjects until she ran dry of words. A few seconds would pass, and Carter would restart her monologue, mumbling this time about the latest shenanigans that Schrödinger had gotten himself into and the toys that she had bought for him a few weeks ago. Apparently the cat had been a common topic between them. Carter's affection for the older woman was plainly obvious, her insecurities more easily confessed when she had been certain there was no one to overhear her.

Langford's presence in a military base had puzzled him. It had been surprising to learn of an archaeologist's participation in the project, and even more baffling to see how a project needed the combined skills of one who studied rocks and one who studied the physics of the stars. Several days ago, he had tailed Carter to Langford's stately home and stayed on for a while even after Carter had driven off, pausing at the flight of stairs where Langford had presumably fallen.

In the glint of the fading light, several uneven lines had stood out against the dark paint of the railing.

Scratch marks.

Found at the top of the stairs, and again three-quarters of the way down, marring the pristine paint job.

Did Langford lose her balance and slip as she tried to hold onto the safety bars? Or was it possible that –? He had shaken his head slightly; it was useless speculating this early into the operation.

The secrets of Cheyenne Mountain lay not too far away now, and would be accessible once the program did its job.

A click of the doorknob made him look up. Carter had left the room and gone to the counter a few paces away, asking to speak to the doctor.

Jack turned in the opposite direction and headed for the elevator, thinking that the night would be as uneventful as the previous ones, ending with the Captain leaving for her own home.

A shrill emergency alarm rang out from Langford's room, bringing in frantically running nurses, along with a small brunette doctor and Carter who were following them hurriedly.

He took a few paces back and stood in a corner unobtrusively along with other curious visitors who were drawn by the harsh sounds of the alarms, observing the chaos that took shape in front of him in a sea of white, green and pink.

There were urgent yells from the doctor, a faint sound of equipment being forcibly activated and all of a sudden, Carter was ejected from the room, her ashen face and tensed form telling him more things than words could not. She stood as close to the door as she could, anxiously awaiting the doctor's prognosis.

It seemed to take forever for the doctor to emerge.

He gasped softly in surprise when the doctor finally did. For all the times that he had tailed Carter, he hadn't seen Langford's doctor; she had either been unavailable, or only had only appeared when he wasn't around.

Janet Frasier was busy speaking to Carter in hushed tones. He was too far away to hear the quiet words she was saying to Carter, but the slight shake of her head and her sombre face told him that Langford was dead.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 6**

**Colorado Springs  
15 September 1995**

It was over too quickly before Samantha Carter could process everything.

The post-mortem had revealed that Catherine had died of multiple-organ failure, a rare complication of her fall. She had been cremated almost immediately with only a handful of people in attendance, her ashes later scattered from the top of Pikes Peak.

Leaving a will that bestowed most of her possessions to Sam whom she had regarded as a daughter.

She mourned Catherine the same way she had mourned her mother – with a period of physical and emotional distance, away from everyone she knew, away from work, with several long hours spent in bed staring sightlessly at the ceiling, with tears that were more often than not, squeezed back in frustration and anger.

The newfound stability that she'd acquired after moving to Colorado Springs was crumbling, like a carpet that had been roughly tugged from beneath her feet.

Lost and adrift, once more.

It was the unpleasant administrative work that had managed to drag her out of bed. The past two days had been exhausting as she tried to clear Catherine's house alone, refusing the help of several base personnel, readying it for an estate agent's perusal while placing the rest of her items in storage. Deep in her grief, it was only as she was absently thumbing through an archaeological journal that she remembered Catherine did appear to have had some unfinished business with the Egyptian hieroglyphs.

A week ago, Catherine had been with her in the mess hall. A week ago, she had been alive, enthusiastic and eager. What a difference a week could make.

And now she stood in Catherine's house, looking at rest of her personal effects that would be removed by the storage men the day after tomorrow.

The ringing of the phone caused her to jump a little.

"Hello." She couldn't trust herself to say more, not when her emotions were that close to the surface.

"Er, hello. Hi. Could I please speak to Dr. Catherine Langford?" An uncertain male voice sounded over the line.

She sighed. "I'm afraid you're calling a week too late. Dr. Langford died a few days ago."

There was utter silence on the line.

"Hello?"

"Yes! Yes, well…I'm…I'm sorry to hear that…that's certainly unexpected news," the man stammered uncertainly. "I didn't know that –"

"No, of course not. It took us all by surprise too. May I ask who's speaking please?"

"This is Daniel Jackson, er, Dr. Daniel Jackson, from the University of Chicago, the Archaeology Department," the caller said, rushing through his speech as though he was almost afraid that she might hang-up on him. "Well, you see, I met Dr. Langford in New York, and she –"

Daniel Jackson.

The mysterious key to the ongoing puzzle.

"Dr. Jackson, I'm Captain Samantha Carter, one of Catherine's closest friends," she interrupted smoothly. "I would like to meet you, on behalf of Catherine."

"Really? I mean, that'll be great. There're some things that…no, well, I mean," he paused. "Let me try again. Actually, I'm in Colorado Springs, been here since yesterday, hoping to meet Catherine, but I've had quite a hard time trying to contact anyone. But well, your news makes it impossible. I would however, be returning to Chicago tonight –," he rambled on, sounding as though he was afraid that she would hang up on him.

That was perfect.

"In fact, Dr. Jackson, I have some time now. Would you tell me where you are? I could always pick you up and we could go somewhere else," she said, suddenly eager to get the show on the road, the thrill of a potential discovery briefly chasing away the sorrow that had plagued her for the past week.

"Oh, well, that's great! I'm at Travelodge Colorado Springs, it's on Ore Mill –"

"I'll see you in twenty."

She slammed the phone down and ran to her car.

* * *

The floppy-haired, bespectacled man who was waiting outside the hotel looked bemused when she pulled up with tyres screeching. He wore a coat that looked several sizes too large for him and a plaid shirt that gave him the air of an intellectual geek who paid the world no heed as it passed him by.

Sam tooted the horn once and waved.

Carrying a number of folders in his hand with a limp canvas messenger slung over his shoulder, Daniel Jackson climbed into her car, bringing a swish of the cold, autumnal air with him.

Still encumbered by his folders and bag, he smiled and held out his hand. "Dr. Daniel Jackson. Pleased to meet you."

She took it, absurdly pleased to find that he had a firm handshake despite what appearances might have alluded to. "Samantha Carter."

They ended up in a little-known café on the outskirts of town, taking a table that was close to the window and the unlikeliest to be disturbed by passing waiters.

Only when their coffees had arrived did she try to break that uncomfortable silence.

"So, Dr. Jackson –"

"Daniel."

"Daniel," she acquiesced. "Only if you call me Sam too."

"Sam," he said with his lips slightly upturned and a rather unnerving gaze in his eyes. "I'm sorry to hear about Dr. Langford. I wish…I wish I could have-" he broke off, waving a hand in regret. "I'm really sorry."

She exhaled sharply. "Yes, me too. So, why did you want to meet her?" The loss of Catherine was still too fresh, too hard to accept.

Seeing his hesitation at her brusque manner, she softened slightly, touching his hand in silent apology.

"Daniel, look, I'm…I'm sorry. It's been a very, very tough time for all of us. Catherine and I are…were colleagues. We were close, and had been for some time. A week ago, she fell from the stairs that led up to her home. Someone found her, barely alive, and got her to the hospital in time. She was placed in intensive care with serious injuries. Just when we all thought that she was going to get better, she took a turn for the worse. Everything went downhill from there…and…the rest…well, you know," she finished lamely, her stomach still clenching at the thought of admitting aloud that Catherine was well and truly gone.

Daniel was silent for a minute, absently tracing the floral pattern on the tablecloth with a finger, contemplating his next words.

"I understand," he said, pausing before giving her a piercing look. "Although I'm not too sure what business an archaeologist like Dr. Langford would have with the Air Force."

"It's classified, sorry," she stated baldly.

He nodded in wry understanding, then ran an absent hand through his long hair.

"I'm a post-doctoral scholar at the University of Chicago's Archaeological department," he began tentatively. "A few months ago, Dr. Langford turned up at a symposium where I was speaking, giving a paper on Ancient Egypt's Fourth Dynasty. It didn't go well," he laughed deprecatingly, humourlessly, recalling how everyone had walked out as he had tried to circle his point on the board. Naïvely, he'd thought there was a free lunch that people were more interested in. "She had a job offer for me. Translation, Ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs."

To say that Sam was surprised was too mild a reaction. She knew who he was from Catherine's near-illegible scribbles on that post-it, but it seemed that Catherine had gone further than she was probably permitted to, offering a position to another civilian without the express permission of the Air Force.

Or did she?

"I refused," he continued flatly. "It all looked so suspicious to me. I've never heard of her, not even in wider academic circles, even though she had a PhD in Archaeology, didn't see what the Air Force wanted with my archaeological knowledge. After the symposium, I left the building, not having finished even half of my presentation. It was raining and there she was again, in a car. And then she said, 'Dr. Jackson, if you have refused my offer, would you at least take a look at a few hieroglyphics and tell me what they say?'"

So Catherine had indeed gone out of her way to get what she wanted.

"And?" Sam pushed, desperate for answers.

"And she handed me a small sheet of paper. At the time, I didn't think very much about this, even thought that it was some sort of academic test that she was giving me, or that…," he trailed off, shaking his head. "Anyway, I took it, and went back to Chicago, and forgot about it for a week or so. I saw it again when I was cleaning my table, and saw that her translation – or whosever translation it was – had been so badly mangled."

He turned and rummaged through one of his many folders, finally peeling out the same sheet of paper – now worn and torn at the top – along with his translation.

"It's a statement on Ra, I think," he pointed out the glyphs to her. "But even the Ancient Egyptians do try to make sense in their sentences. Here, if you look at this – '_Quebeh'_, then an adverbial _sedjem-en-ef_ with a cleft subject. Then 'sealed and buried,'" the archaeologist said, using his finger to circle that particular ideogram. "That one there is not 'coffins', but 'for all time'."

She stared at his effortless translations in shock, realising that he had done it, had figured out something that their very best scientists and linguists couldn't do and had even explained it to her in a manner that actually made sense.

Buried in the Giza Plateau.

Not meant to be discovered, for all time.

It was now so obvious, so clear, so…_literal_.

Sometime in the last few months, Catherine had tried the translations on her own. And succeeded. Daniel Jackson's own analysis was merely her confirmation. But even Catherine couldn't guess the last row of hieroglyphs.

Daniel was still talking, explaining the change of the hieroglyphic structures over time and how he had come to his conclusion. "So put together, it reads like some mystical or ritualistic text," he chuckled, "but we already knew they were superstitious people. Anyway, put together, you would get '_A million years into the sky is Ra, sun god, sealed and buried for all time_, _his_…."

He stopped abruptly, grimacing in apparent discomfiture.

"His what?" She leaned forward, watching the animated movements of his fingers come to a halt.

"Look, this needs some explanation. It's here that I have to say that the last word just makes no sense to me, and that's the thing throwing off this whole translation," he admitted, "it's actually a combination of glyphs in Ancient Egyptian that I saw, which, after several cross-references still didn't seem to exist in the best dictionaries –"

"Daniel!" Sam couldn't help the sharpness that had crept into her voice. "Please, just tell me."

He looked abashed, his face flushing.

"Uh, right," he mumbled, "'Stargate'. 'Sealed and buried for all time, his Stargate.' That's the word, I think," he looked uncomfortably away, looking as though he didn't know what else to say. "Of course, it's possible that in Ancient Egyptian burial myths, the gateway to the stars was only opened to the _Ka_, that is, the person's soul, in the afterlife and knowing that Ra, being the supreme god in the whole creation myth –"

Sam had stopped listening, feeling as though the wind had been knocked out of her. The grey ring, its alien composition…a gateway to the stars…the Stargate…

_God, could it be…?_

She forced herself to sit still and stay calm, when all she wanted to do was to rush back to base and cast a fresh eye over the seventh symbol.

Suddenly, Sam understood why Catherine had extended that particular offer to Dr. Daniel Jackson. His intuitive reasoning, his earnestness, his creative energy that she'd gleaned from his conference were exactly what the project – or even Catherine herself – had lacked. Mocked for his outlandish ideas in an unforgiving academic world, he would never know that he was closer to the truth than anyone could have thought. She marvelled at Catherine's wily method at releasing classified information, leaving it to Daniel to think that an amateur had attempted, and failed with the translation.

With a start, she realised that Daniel had fallen silent, watching her curiously.

"Sam?"

"Yeah," she muttered awkwardly, feeling her cheeks flame a dull red for having tuned him out halfway. "Sorry, I lost you there for a while."

He snorted dryly; she hadn't seen the pain briefly flashing across his eyes. "Most people tend to."

She made a show of checking her watch, hoping that he'd get the hint.

Not really. He sat there patiently, his hands still holding the sheet. Time to take the bull by its horns.

"Well, Daniel, do you mind if I took this?" She pointed to the sheet, and he let it go without argument. "Thank you very much, Daniel. I know that Catherine would have appreciated this, even though it well…came too late," she finished awkwardly.

"There's more," Daniel eyed her steadily, daring her to leave her seat.

_Holy Hannah._

"More? What you do mean?"

He opened another folder, closed it and opened another, huffing in mild annoyance while he flipped forcefully through its pages until he saw what he wanted.

"Catherine also handed me a series of ancient Semitic writing systems – Akkadian Cuneiform, Babylonian Cuneiform, hypothetical Mesopotamian Neo Aramic, some other forms of hieratic and others….look, I really don't know why she did this," he replied in frustration, turning over the page to her. "Apart from Ancient Egyptian, I'm not that familiar with these glyphs."

Printed neatly on a piece of paper were several sets of vertical ideograms arranged in several columns, each column containing six to seven characters. Sam scanned the unfamiliar symbols until she reached the familiar patterns in the second-last column.

The shapes of the star constellations had been cleverly disguised among the other writings as another obscure Middle-Eastern language, decontextualised and their combinations scrambled so that Dr. Jackson would not recognise them as anything else other than glyphs.

"So what did you find?" It took an effort to force her voice into a semblance of calm interest.

"Nothing, actually," Daniel replied apologetically, frowning at the patterns once more. "They don't really make any sense in that particular order. I actually completed a search of cuneiform and other pre-dynastic hieroglyphics. No matches whatsoever. I've exhausted all reference material against all known writing samples from the period pre- and post-….and nothing. Although," he continued eagerly, and pointed at a peculiar symbol of two praying figures in front of a pyramid. "That one looks out of place."

"Out of place?"

"Yes," he confirmed, "that looks more like a prayer drawing in Ancient Egyptian, a graphic description if you like, of the landscape in the moonlight and maybe their rituals …look, you can actually see the funny little line and circle coming out of the top."

Their gazes locked; his showed befuddlement and hers, dawning awareness.

The seventh, odd glyph that stood outside the cartouche. Landscape. The circle. The moonlight…or was it the moon? Kneeling figures. The disparate pictures clashed and swirled in her head. She froze at what he had unwittingly revealed.

That was it – she just _had_ to go.

"Could I have this too?" She held the paper in a tight grip.

He nodded earnestly. "Oh, right, of course, you can have it. It's yours."

Sam stood immediately, accidentally hitting the table on her sudden way up, feeling the rush of adrenaline through her veins, a thrilling, prickly wash of exhilaration that caused her to breathe faster and her head to swim.

"Daniel, I really, really have to go. You probably this is odd, but well, it isn't. Thank you so, so much for what you've done. And," she hesitated to add, "I'm sure that Catherine would have felt the same way."

Remembering ashamedly that she hadn't exactly shown very good manners to him the whole time, the least she could do was to offer him a lift back after nearly dragging him out of Colorado Springs.

"Need a ride back?"

"Er…no, not really. I could just call a cab," he said in bewilderment, having also stood up in mild alarm upon seeing her rather violent reaction to his revelation of what he _didn't_ know. "You sure you don't want to know about the stories surrounding the glyphs?"

But she was already halfway out the door, waving her hurried goodbye. Or was that her gesture of refusal?

Daniel Jackson watched her leave, his brow furrowed in thought and sat down again, slowly gathering his folders into a semblance of order. Running through the entire conversation in his mind, he realised that it was him – in his excitement – who had done most of the talking and Samantha Carter, a whole lot of listening. Her reactions had seemed out of proportion to what he had said, and he was under no illusions that it had meant a lot more to her than what she was willing to reveal.

It was best to let sleeping dogs lie, he decided and pulled out his wallet.

And time to return to Chicago.

He signalled the waitress and got her to call a cab.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 7**

**Area 51, Department of Science and Engineering  
South Nevada  
12 September 1995**

Programmed to avoid asteroid belts and electromagnetic emissions, the small vessel emerged out of a hyperspace jump and glided through the vacuum of space, set for the last course in its database of locations.

Directly ahead, a blue-green planet hung in inky darkness within the vast spiral of the Milky Way.

The search droid built into its engines started a scanning sequence and found a match. Locking in the co-ordinates, the interstellar craft accelerated towards its target.

190,000 km beneath the small space vessel, dawn was creeping across the North-American continent. In Nevada, an orange sun was about to peek above the desert horizon, already tingeing the dawn sky with a red hue over the arid landscape.

Entering Earth's atmosphere from the Northern Pole, it plunged towards the Arctic Ocean, levelling off in the Bering Sea and rushed towards the Mojave Desert, making an arc around Nevada's bordering states of Utah and Idaho. It moved to hover over the perimeter of the no-fly zone in the Groom Lake facility, beginning a scan over the area that seemed to send out a signal not found in these parts of the universe.

Its presence, now uncloaked, triggered the motions sensors liberally dotting the perimeter of the military base, setting off shrill alarms that sounded through the facility.

The film grain from Area 51's security feed was fuzzy but unmistakably showed a flat octagonal shape barely two metres in length that bore no resemblance to any military or civilian craft.

The graveyard shift was nearly over, the hallways soon filling with somnolent employees as they waited for their military transport out of the base. A young scientist picked his way through the crowd as he hurried to the General's office.

"Sir, security cameras have detected an unidentified flying object that has landed on the south shore of Groom Lake. We believe that it has some kind of cloaking technology that has prevented Earth's satellites and telescopes from detecting it."

The General hurried after the scientist, quickening his steps to match the younger man's unusually long strides.

By the time the hastily assembled reconnaissance team had reached the base's south shore, the craft had vanished, leaving no trace of its presence in the lightening sky.

* * *

**Cheyenne Mountain Complex  
Colorado Springs  
15 September 1995**

The first thing that Sam did when she reached her lab was to pull out her collection of high-resolution photographs of all the constellation patterns carved on the Stargate, lining them out across the length of her lab bench. Drawing out Daniel Jackson's crumpled reproduction of the cartouche and its seventh, incongruous glyph, she methodically compared the last symbol with each of the photos, slowly rotating it clockwise.

Earth – the point of origin. Its moon, shining its light on the pyramids of Egypt, as the kneeling figures bowed in supplication on either side. The landscape, the circle, the moonlight. A single circle…could it be the Earth's moon? The lay of the land. The land of Ancient Egypt. The Great Pyramids framed against a moonlit sky.

The symbol of Ancient Egypt.

To the ancient dwellers in Egypt, that would have been their entire world.

World.

Earth.

Where it all started.

The point of origin.

Impatiently, Sam chucked out the irregular patterns of the star constellations, looking for any glyph that would resemble pyramid and its moon.

And there it was.

She picked out the photograph of a glyph that resembled an inverted 'V', capped by a perfect circle on its apex. With unsteady hands, she picked up a marker and drew the praying stick figures on either side of the downward slope.

The Stargate had given up its last secret. The sequence was at last complete.

Quickly documenting and encrypting her report on the process of acquiring the seventh symbol, she felt a growing exhilaration that she thought had been snuffed out since Catherine's sudden and tragic demise.

In her enthusiasm, Sam pushed off her lab chair and gathered the photos of the glyphs and the drawings of the cartouche. She couldn't remember running to the General's office, nor could she remember her pounding footsteps up the metal staircase into the briefing room, nor the names of the unusually chatty technicians on duty. Walter had cheerfully informed her that the General was in his office, having come out of a budget meeting with the General a few minutes ago.

Seeing that West's door was open and she rushed in breathlessly after a quick knock.

"General, Sir, are you -," she started, and realised that she was addressing an empty chair.

Looking around and seeing the spread of papers that had been scattered on the ground, she knew that he had left his desk only a while ago and probably for a short time, but had done so hastily enough to displace some of his documents.

A sharp wave of disappointment overtook her. It always seemed as though the timing was never right. With a sigh, she bent over and picked up the stray sheets on the ground, intending to put it back on the table, but the letterheads of the companies on them caught her eye.

The tablatures, headings and bulleted paragraphs suggested that these were bookkeeping receipts and contracts – hadn't Walter just finished a budgeting review?

She risked a quick glance down.

**_Frontiers Aeronautical Engineering Inc._**

_This TECHNOLOGY TRANSFER AGREEMENT between FRONTIERS AERONAUTICAL ENGINEERING INC. and WINSTON ORVILLE WEST is made and entered into on this 4__th__ day of February 1995 and effective immediately._

_WHEREAS, THE CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN PROJECT under GENERAL WINSTON ORVILLE WEST has developed technology under the jurisdiction of the military of the UNITED STATES OF AMERICA._

_For the amount of USD 3,000,000 paid to GENERAL WINSTON ORVILLE WEST in the first quarter of 1995, FRONTIERS AERONAUTICAL ENGINEERING INC. will acquire, every fortnightly, progress reports of the scientific and engineering departments and details of the projects' Standard Operating Procedures. _

_In consideration of the technology transfer, the Purchaser shall pay WINSTON ORVILLE WEST AS FOLLOWS:_

_Documents delivery: USD $[CONFIDENTIAL INFORMATION OMITTED AND FILED SEPARATELY]_

_Operating Procedures: USD $[CONFIDENTIAL INFORMATION OMITTED AND FILED SEPARATELY] _

_Total Amount: USD 12,000,000, payable in quarterly instalments of USD 3,000,000_

_IN WITNESS WHEREOF, the parties herein have caused this Agreement to be executed by duly authorized representatives of both parties on the day and date shown below to be effective on the day and year first above written._

_CERTAIN PORTIONS OF THIS AGREEMENT HAVE BEEN OMITTED AND FILED SEPARATELY, IN CONNECTION WITH A REQUEST FOR CONFIDENTIAL TREATMENT PURSUANT TO RULE 156 PROMULGATED UNDER THE SECURITIES ACT OF 1934, AS AMENDED._

SIGNED: _  
DATED: _

The shock of this discovery caused her stumble; a quick flick through the other print-outs showed that there were similar contracts signed with a variety of different private but well-known aerospace companies located in different parts of the world.

**_T.U.C. Systems_**

_This TECHNOLOGY TRANSFER AGREEMENT between T.U.C SYSTEMS and WINSTON ORVILLE WEST is made and entered into on this 20__th__ day of November 1994 and effective on this 1__st__ day of January 1995._

**_United Engineering Corporation_**

_This TECHNOLOGY TRANSFER AGREEMENT between UNITED ENGINEERING CORPORATION and WINSTON ORVILLE WEST…._

She'd seen enough. Reflex action made her want to put the papers back on the general's desk, but on second thought, she left the papers scattered as they were, exiting the room the moment the sound of heavy pounding footsteps was heard coming up the stairs.

Sam made it as far as the corner of the briefing room table before the General's head appeared at the top of the stairs.

"Captain, Sergeant Harriman was telling me you were looking for me," West greeted. "What can I do for you?"

Her mind fumbled for an excuse – any excuse – to tell him something.

"Sir, I wanted to get your permission to run a diagnostic on the dialling program," she improvised quickly, hoping the General would fall for her subterfuge. "I realise that there might have been a margin of instability in the search algorithms that could have led to –"

West held up his hand, grimacing slightly, clearly unwilling to hear any more of the technical explanation that she knew made absolutely no sense.

"Granted, Captain. You have twenty-four hours."

"Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir," she managed, watching him enter his office and close the door.

* * *

**Motel 6  
****Colorado Springs  
17 September 1995**

Jack O'Neill waded through the recently decrypted files, reading for the tenth time about an alien device that had been uncovered from the Giza Plateau in 1928, coming into the possession of the Air Force decades later, forming a top-secret project even more classified – if that were even possible – than research projects and aircraft test flights at Area 51. Led by civilian archaeologist Dr. Catherine Langford and policed by Air Force military scientists, they were on the verge of getting it functional through a series of translations and pattern recognitions.

The more he'd thought about it, the more it was unsurprising to learn that this was the Air Force's most closely guarded secret. Langford's recent death had however, left a vacuum in the civilian command structure and he knew that it was only a matter of time before the Air Force muscled in and asserted its military foothold on the project.

Captain Dr. Samantha Carter, it seemed, had a pivotal role in getting it operational, her knowledge in astrophysics quickly putting her in pole-position as an expert in this device. After her meeting with Daniel Jackson a few days ago, she had driven maniacally back to the base, from which she had not emerged until twenty-four hours later. He'd tailed her as discreetly as he could, watching her long, purposeful strides taking her past the checkpoints from a distance.

The latest documents download from Carter's personal systems had told him that the grey ring – or the Stargate as she'd now taken to calling it – had a dialling program had thus far only encoded six chevrons, the seventh unknown symbol only recently discovered. In it, she had postulated the formation of a stable wormhole containing sufficient energy to dial any particular point in the known galaxy, de-molecularising any substance that passed through it, only re-molecularising into its original form as it emerged on the other side.

Her explanations were concise, the documentation reading like a partial, personal diary that recounted her meeting with Daniel Jackson, Langford's subterfuge and Jackson's explanations that had given her the last push to discover what the point of origin really was. But yet, she had kept that discovery to herself, encrypting the file heavily on her own laptop without disclosing anything to the commander of the base.

Carter had kept regular hours since getting back from the base and his digital surveillance of her online activities surprisingly revealed discreet background checks on various aeronautical companies that were strategically positioned in several large cities on all continents.

Had she been thinking of resigning and joining the private sector instead? He wouldn't put it past her, given the tumultuous activities of the last week. Without Langford, she had appeared lost and confused, the misery on her face evident for all to see when she thought she was alone. Coupled with her erratic schedule and the pressure of searching for the seventh glyph, it looked as though Carter was inevitably headed for a rather spectacular burnout.

There was much to think about, and the work was far from over. Over the past few days, he had contacted his base only once more, sending through selective findings on the target. The mission deadline was fast approaching, and strangely, he had felt an unfamiliar, disquieting uncertainty so completely foreign that it had stopped him in his tracks. The tension of the past few days had tightened the muscles in his shoulders considerably, coupled with the severe lack of sleep during his intensive surveillance of Carter and the activities going on in the mountain, he was on edge, only going on adrenaline and constant bursts of caffeine. In truth, physically, he was not doing much better than Carter herself, having chased after several leads that were in all probability, above and beyond his call of duty – leads which might have been better left alone. But Jack O'Neill treaded many thin lines in the course of his career, and this one was just another one in a long, long list missions of which he'd already lost count.

He had been given his orders to neutralise Carter, orders given in such unusual circumstances that he was starting to have serious doubts about its validity. Carter, on the other hand, had shown no sign of duplicitous behaviour in the days that he watched her. Her supposed breach of security protocols had simply not existed. The lengths to which she went to meticulously catalogue and encrypt her documents had attested to it; her solitary lifestyle simply pointed to a workaholic – and possibly a lonely woman – who kept building on a stellar academic and professional career while neglecting anything that lay outside those spheres. While her flawless record logically pointed to a soldier who worked her way up, there wasn't any way to know the woman behind the military persona that he'd been shallowly acquainted with, on paper, least of all, over the past week and a half.

More importantly, he was fully aware that he had bypassed several opportunities that would have given him a clear shot at Carter. Had those failed, there were other, covert ways that could take a man down.

All of which he also hadn't taken for reasons that he couldn't quite yet articulate.

Langford's death had already complicated the legitimacy of his mission; what was a tragic and unfortunate event in Carter's life had in fact, given him the impetus to yet delay his hand, playing perhaps, a pivotal role in convincing him that the task was at best, misguided.

Wrestling with his conflicting thoughts, he turned to his laptop, logging into the command centre for another mission update. Faced with a black, blue screen, he growled in frustration, retyping his passwords, and created a different bypass that made a few connections to other several military databases to get him where he wanted to be.

All to no avail. He was well and truly locked out.

After a moment's contemplation, he dug out the satellite phone and dialled, knowing it was the last resort of means he would ever use.

"This is Timberwolf. I need to speak to Asterisk," he grated out, pacing the floor in agitation.

A pause.

The line went dead, leaving him staring at the phone in disbelief.

_Goddammit_, Jack thought, frantically processing what had happened.

His redialling attempts hadn't even brought him close to a ringtone.

Cut off from his sources of information, he was now flying blind, left with a growing dread that he had been entirely too naïve in accepting this mission. He was all too aware that there were big things going on that weren't his place to understand, boundaries not to trespass and some lines not to cross – yet he did those anyway.

And now it seemed that these indiscretions were coming back to bite him in his ass. Jack didn't like this one bit. Ten days after being given that dubious assignment, he was already being written off.

It was time to go.

Anywhere.

As long as it hid him from sight until he figured out what the hell was going on.

Throwing everything in his duffels, Jack checked his weapon and opened the door slowly, the evening's fading light making it harder to see anything. Leaving the key in the lock, he closed the door and headed for the back stairwell. Lit by flickering fluorescent lamps, the steps cast magnified shadows of themselves on the yellowed and mildewed walls, shading the whole area in a sharp contrast of black and white.

The dark cast of the flight of steps morphed into an advancing figure. Before he knew it, an elbow had connected his side and a fist to his face made him fall over. Rolling over quickly but before he could scramble to his feet in a crouch on the stair landing, a black-clad figure had a gun pointed at his chest. Grunting in pain, he acted on impulse, reaching out immediately to grab his attacker's hand and twist until he heard a crack in the other man's wrist. The shock of the blow allowed him to pull the man to the floor, wrestling for the firearm as they rolled precariously towards the edge of the flight of steps. His duffels fell off his shoulder and hung awkward off his arms, their weight now an excruciating burden in the crease of his elbows.

A hand gripped his throat. He tried pulling the hand free, digging his fingers of his free hand into the hair of his attacker.

Short of breath, he mustered the strength to slam the man's head once on the hard concrete. His weight, already leaning at an awkward angle over the stairs, eventually pulled both of them over the steep incline. They tumbled down the hard, unforgiving planes, landing with the firearm carelessly tossed in a corner.

Jack got to his feet in a hurry, shrugging off the bags that had cut into his arms and ignoring the alarming tilt of the room as he stared at the scene of the struggle. His would-be assassin lay slack and unmoving on the ground, blood pouring from one side of his head as a result of their fall. He fingered his throat gently, certain of the bruises that would form the day after. He was sure that his nose was just as bloodied, and his sides ached like hell.

Muttering an expletive, he bent down and checked the pulse of the downed man.

Alive and kicking.

Picking up the .22 LRS from the other end of the landing, he flicked its safety on, recognising the build and type of the gun – and its legendary shot placement – that was favoured in several covert operations, particularly in the Middle East.

Jack shouldered his bags, tucking the weapon into one of them.

There must be more of these hitmen, he concluded grimly. The near-simultaneous events of the past evening couldn't have been a mere coincidence, not especially now since he had become one of the hunted along with Samantha Carter. Jack tallied his information mentally, weighing it against what he knew of the entire situation – a situation that had become too messy for him to handle. There were bigger things at work here, and he had seen only the tip of the iceberg, perhaps already involving himself without meaning to.

His assignment had been terminated, but left unfinished. They – whoever they were – would probably want to finish his job for him, and most probably, finish him too.

Slipping out the exit door quietly, he noticed two vehicles parked in the lots – one being his rental and the other, belonging to a family staying in the motel's only suite across the quadrangle. Their window blinds were drawn, and from a distance, he saw them sitting down to dinner, oblivious to the struggle that had just taken place in a disused stairwell.

So the hitman had some form of transport, a partner or even partners who were going to come back for him. Or perhaps they were simultaneously taking out the other target – Carter.

Decision made, he got into his rental and floored the accelerator, pulling out of the motel lot, speeding towards the Captain's house.

Carter had kept regular hours the last few days and he hoped to heaven that she had gone back early today.

He could only hope that he wasn't too late.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 8 **

**Samantha Carter's residence  
Colorado Springs  
17 September 1995**

The throbbing pain in his stomach and head was all too familiar, an injury sustained frequently in all of his overseas missions. But for now, it was inconsequential.

Jack resolutely ignored it and willed himself to concentrate on the road instead, knowing every second of delay was a second closer to her life forfeit.

He drove like a bat out of hell, hoping, praying that no one got to her first.

Forced to make a stop at a red light, Jack pulled out his Beretta and attached a silencer. He pushed the car forward again when the lights turned, then went through the next yellow at the next major junction. Looking up at the road signs, he breathed easier knowing that her neighbourhood was only ten more minutes away.

He swerved into Carter's street in less than eight, finally slowing and rolling to a stop when he saw an unusual number of cars stacked up the driveway next to hers, lined up all the way down the narrow street. He parked behind one of the cars and cautiously made his way towards her house.

A party was in full swing at her neighbour's place, the chatter extraordinarily loud in the typical silence of an autumn evening in the quiet suburbs. The guests were dressed to the nines, holding glasses of champagne as they stood and mingled outside in the brisk air. Dinner was nearly finished; the remains of a large turkey, roasted potatoes, fruit punch and cake littered the catering table that had been set up outside. Beneath the wide canopy in the front lawn, a bartender mixed the after-dinner drinks, his counter queue getting longer by the second. White streamers were strewn all over the front garden, and the revellers quickly on their way to getting happily tipsy.

Jack guessed that it must have been a wedding anniversary of sorts, or some corporate shindig at a co-worker's place. Whatever it was, it was quite a significant cocktail party considering the extent of the celebration.

He exhaled slowly, thinking for a second. The lively atmosphere would be both a deterrent and a convenient cover. The hitman could not enter Carter's house without being seen by the number of people loitering around her driveway, but if he had managed to slip past them, the noise of the party would certainly conceal the sounds of a struggle coming from inside her house.

Jack wondered if he had reached her place a little too late after his skirmish with the other guy. He'd known it was a real possibility that he would arrive only to find Carter missing, or flat on her floor with her life already drained out of her.

It was only the party that had in all probability, saved Carter's life, even if she didn't know it yet. Sheer luck was all that kept her still breathing.

Walking past the neighbour's crowded driveway, he moved towards the trees lining her porch. The living room in Carter's house was lit, and through the half-opened blinds, he saw her typing on her laptop, her brow furrowed in concentration. Her bedroom was located at the side of the house, its dimly lit interior casting a yellow tint on the grass outside.

A loud exclamation, followed by bursts of laughter from his left made him snap his head up. Several guests were bidding their goodbyes, laughingly escorting a dishevelled, drunk man between them. Playfully grabbing his tie, they stumbled down the driveway and onto the road together, heading for their cars.

He took the opportunity of the momentary distraction to take the now-familiar pathway that led to her backdoor, withdrawing his Beretta out slowly as he inched toward the side of her house, risking a glance around her backyard before finally turning his gaze to her backdoor.

It was slightly ajar, letting out the tiniest sliver of light from inside.

_Dammit!_

He pushed the door open slowly, moving through the empty, dark kitchen, all senses on alert. Her kitchen led into her living room through a short corridor on the right. He stepped into the small passageway, keeping his eyes on the shaft of light that emanated from the living room.

A creak in the floorboards.

Light footsteps across the same space.

He inched forward, crouching out of sight and flattened himself against a wall, his eyes skimming the perimeter of the kitchen and part of the living room. Then he realised that was Carter herself who had gotten out of her chair, holding a large mug of steaming coffee and heading for the kitchen.

From his peripheral vision, he saw a moving shape emerge from her bedroom. His instinct took over. He lunged for her as she walked into the connecting passageway, bringing them both hard onto the floor, hearing the simultaneous dull thud of a bullet from another silenced gun and the shatter of her mug echo through the house. Scrambling off her, Jack immediately turned, rolled into a crouch, extended his hand and fired, the first shot ricocheting harmlessly off the wall as Carter's attacker ducked. His second shot hit the other man in the shoulder, the third finding its place in the centre of his head.

A sudden weight slammed into his injured side, the agony of the hit causing him to groan aloud. Carter had launched her body at him from her position on the floor, and they hit the hardwood floor again as she tried to press his face into it. He barely had time to stop her fists from pummelling his already-tender nose. She straddled him, but he used his strength to unbalance her gait, pushing her shoulders forcefully down and flipping her immediately so that he now loomed above her.

She twisted and bucked, trying to break his hold on her, but he only shifted more of his weight on her, immobilising her body.

"Carter! Stop!" He barked urgently, grabbing her wrists to immobilise her before she broke more parts of his face.

She froze involuntarily when she heard her name.

"Carter! I'm not trying to kill you!" He tried again, in a softer voice.

True to his promise, he slowly let go of her wrists, moving his hands away from her and rolled his body off to the side.

She hadn't moved, but her gaze was burning through him.

Jack slumped against the wall briefly, worn out by the adrenaline rush and the earlier encounter in the evening. Only after holstering his own weapon did he turn his eyes to Carter who had by now, clambered into a sitting position on the floor, her blue-eyes wide and unblinking in shock and growing rage.

A slight creak made them both sit up again.

Schrödinger entered from the cat flap through the back.

The cat eyed them and the mess on the floor, then walked to his bowl and lapped at his water calmly. They watched him saunter to the fireplace after he drank his fill.

For a moment, they sat in the darkened corridor, the sounds of their breaths harsh in the silence.

A glance at her bleeding arm through her red-stained T-shirt made him frown.

"You're bleeding out," he said without much preamble and gestured to her arm. "You need medical attention."

"What?" Sam blinked once, twice, willing the fog of panicked shock away. She cast her eyes around the living room, as though unwilling to look at the dead man, his blood now staining the carpet a dark red.

Blood was hard to wash out, she thought absently.

Then she stood up shakily and hit the light switch, her mind racing at a thousand miles a minute.

"You need medical attention," the man repeated as he looked her over.

The sound of his voice broke her adrenaline-fuelled thoughts. She looked at him, really taking him in for the first time, her gaze growing suspicious once again when he met her eyes steadily. A stinging pain in her arm made her wince, and she looked down in vague surprise at a wound that was already bleeding into her thin nightshirt.

A bullet graze in the upper arm, the raw, exposed skin serving as a dismal reminder that things could have gone much, much worse.

"And you are?" She asked coldly, not liking the intruder who had saved her life anymore than the other one who was now lying dead in her house.

"Jack O'Neill," he said. "Special Forces," he added as an afterthought, lifting his dog-tags.

But it soon became clear that he didn't want to reveal more, demanding her acceptance of his short answers. "OK," she replied warily. "And?"

"And now you get yourself packed, we leave and I'll get you to a doctor," he countered easily.

"If you think –"

"I already said I'm not going to hurt you."

"It's merely a bullet graze," Sam snapped.

"Not from what I just saw," he argued calmly and then sighed. "Look, Carter, I-"

"I'm a solider. I'll live," she interrupted him fiercely. "You, on the other hand….care to explain?"

"Not now."

The stern, controlled look in his face was back, where weariness had once been imprinted. She pursed her lips in thought.

Jack wasn't sure he could make her understand, not now, not when they were so exposed in a space that was already compromised.

"For God's sake, O'Neill, if that's really your name," she interjected more calmly, "you clearly know who I am. But that doesn't go both ways. You want me to follow you, after you tell me your name and nothing more….just –what the hell is really going on? You come in, push me onto the floor, shoot someone in my house and then I realise that man was trying to get me killed –"

He matched her stance, then gripped her uninjured arm and pulled her closer until she was an inch away from his chest. "Listen, we don't have the time for this," he told her brusquely. "There may be more of them, and god knows when they'll come. Get your ass moving and then I'll explain later."

Up close, she saw the bruises that lined his face, the dried blood around his nose and the way he was hunched, as though fighting some kind of pain in his abdomen. He was definitely more banged up than her, and those bruises looked like they had been acquired only recently.

Funny how that helped her decide take things up with him.

For now.

"OK. You have a story to tell," she finally agreed warily. "I'll be a minute."

"Wait," he added, seeing her gingerly walk towards the bathroom.

She stopped, clenching her fists so tightly that it hurt.

"Don't touch anything," he said, nodding towards the fallen hitman lying among the shards of broken glass.

She gave him a curt nod without turning around and disappeared into the bathroom.

Rinsing the wound and applying a light coat of antiseptic cream to it, Sam caught sight of herself in the mirror, wondering what the hell had just happened in the last fifteen minutes that had just turned her life upside down. She has been engrossed in her investigation, listening to her music with her headphones on, not having even heard the back door open. What sort of soldier did that make her? And now there was this O'Neill guy standing in her hallway, expecting her to leave everything – her work, her home after barging in…

How long had he been watching her? Or rather, how careless had she really been?

It was clear that she had been a target for god knows how long, and it was only the timely entry of O'Neill that had gotten her arm grazed and not her head taken off. What, or more importantly, who, had put her on their radar?

She thought about the security measures that existed in the Air Force, then deliberated on the porosity of the channels through which classified information flowed. Deep-space telemetry was a plausible cover for the layman, but unbelievable to the military types who could see through a cover story easily. All it took was a bit of research and the convenient placement of good contacts to turn even the most top-secret of bases into a leaking pipe of information that could drain into the wrong hands.

Which was probably, exactly what had happened.

It was the USAF's worst nightmare. And now it had just become hers.

Sam took her time washing her face and cleaning up, then stepped out of the bathroom. O'Neill was waiting for her a few steps outside her room, his stance deceptively relaxed as he leaned against the wall.

"Bring your service weapon. And," he hesitated, "all of your work documents. I mean it. All of it, including your laptop. Anything that you think is eyes-only information."

She looked at him sharply, but didn't say a word, and walked into the bedroom.

But before she could shut the door in his face, he stuck a foot in the door.

"Don't do anything funny. And I mean it," he said, looking at her steadily. Bending closer until his lips nearly touched her ear, he whispered, "It's got something to do with your Stargate."

Her eyes whipped to him in shock, but her weight leaning against the door didn't let up. He removed his foot and the door slammed shut on him.

The relative privacy of her bedroom relaxed her fractionally, and she sat on the bed heavily, her thoughts turning inwards. She still wasn't sure if O'Neill could be trusted. He was dangerous, certainly; the quick and efficient way that he'd taken out her assassin was proof positive of it. And apart from saving her life, he had clearly known several things were happening before he made it to her house.

Sam briefly toyed with the idea of leaving O'Neill to clean up that mess he'd made. It was a plan that involved climbing out of the window, hightailing it to her car and driving off to base without him knowing. Then she dismissed it immediately as the stupidest plan she'd ever made. She was in the middle of formulating another one until she noticed that her cupboard had been left partially open. Standing up shakily, she saw that her casual clothes were still neatly hung up, her military dress-uniform still encased in its plastic cover untouched since its return from the dry-cleaners.

Her killer had slipped through her kitchen door and gone straight to her bedroom; it was clear that he was searching for something he thought she had in her possessions. Or at least had tried to when he was interrupted.

Who was he? What did he want…and why…her?

The past few weeks hadn't been easy. She had sat in enough budget briefings with her scientific team to know that whole Stargate project was hanging off a precarious financial ledge. It was considered a drain on precious resources when nothing came out of it after decades of study. The funding from the top brass was slowly running dry; it had been made crystal clear that unless there were significant scientific and technological breakthroughs, it was all going down as a failed project in military history.

She and her team had interpreted these meetings as an urgent plea to get the alien device working as soon as possible. So she had made it her life, this unusual union of science and the military, and worked hard at it so that she could keep both. And now it looked as though she was on the verge of losing it all, just after she'd quite possibly made the most important discovery in the history of the Stargate project.

The base wasn't the safest place despite its top-secret billing, especially not while West had suspicious dealings under the table.

Had West known about her discovery in his office – and was sufficiently worried about it enough to send someone after her?

Or had the hit come from a completely unrelated source?

And where did O'Neill come into all of this?

She shook her head; the throbbing pain in her arm and the sudden slump of energy from the earlier spike in adrenaline wasn't making her think too clearly.

Taking in a deep breath, she threw in random articles of clothing, some toiletries, all the spare medication she had, a few power bars and all of her electronic equipment. She swung it over the shoulder, testing its weight. The duffel was one of the heaviest that she'd ever carried. Then she started changing.

Jeans, T-shirt, jacket, hoodie. Socks. Boots.

Considering the events of the past two weeks, it seemed that she had lived a blissfully oblivious life that was dedicated to her scientific pursuits within her military posting. But that was all before it had gone to hell.

Sam could have kicked herself. In her single-minded focus on the Stargate, she had forgotten to keep her eyes open.

It was tempting to tell O'Neill to screw himself, and return to the relative security of the base. She could report the attack on her house, then subject herself to heavy security surveillance, or voluntarily confine herself to the base indefinitely. But as unappealing as that sounded, it was undeniably, a naïve course of action. If the base had been compromised, then returning to it pretending as though nothing had happened – and alerting those who had been responsible for the attack – was akin to tossing herself into the lion's den. In fact, it would only be a matter of days, maybe even hours, before someone tried again, and succeeded.

Obviously there was no way in hell that was going to happen if she could help it.

That left her with no other course of action but to follow O'Neill.

He had promised her an explanation. She would hold him to that.

The enormity of what she was about to do hit her hard. And made her stumble back in sudden fear and doubt.

Captain Samantha Carter was going to be declared AWOL; the MPs were going to be knocking on her door when she didn't turn up for work. Given her rank, and the severity of what she was going to do, the consequences were unthinkable – horrifying even. Tried by General Court Martial, charged for desertion of duties, followed by a dishonourable discharge. The stern military upbringing in General Jacob Carter's household that had carried her through college and the Air Force Academy had also secured her utmost respect for rules, ensuring that she never blatantly crossed such lines. In fact, their existence gave her an ordered life and a solid, professional career that she cherished above everything. For that, she was grateful.

And now, it was terrifying to take the next step into unknown waters.

But she wasn't a trained soldier and a scientist for nothing; she did what she had to do after calculating the odds, even if it meant walking away at the most crucial moment.

Gather your courage, Samantha Carter, she told herself. Take that step into the unknown.

Not nearly five minutes later, everything was ready, everything in place. Almost everything.

O'Neill was nowhere to be seen. Moving towards the kitchen window, she saw him outside walking the perimeter of the house, fingering his gun nervously. She looked him over critically from that distance. His shoulders were still slightly hunched and tense, his eyes exhausted but wary.

He wasn't looking in her direction…yet…so, technically, she could…run. Find the nearest house of any base personnel…or go into the woods…away from her neighbour's party…time to stop thinking!

It took her a split-second to bolt.

She shot through the door, aiming for the back woods that lay behind her street and away from her neighbours…but not before getting O'Neill's attention. She looked back anxiously to see him in close pursuit, his longer strides closing the distance between them too quickly for her liking.

It took him less than five seconds to tackle her down into the high grass.

She yelped as she went down, her short-lived escape plan thoroughly thwarted. They couldn't even have been fifteen, twenty metres away from her house when he'd caught her.

"Damn you, Carter. I told you not to do anything funny, didn't I?" He asked her calmly and somehow, to her, that seemed more frightening than an angry, ballistic commander hurling obscenities in her face in basic training.

She struggled to catch her breath, resentfully noticing that he hadn't even broken a sweat nor was he panting as she was.

"O'Neill, if you think I'm just going to throw down everything and run –" She snarled through gritted teeth, doing her best to push his weight off.

"That's _exactly_ what we're going to do. Run. Together. So I suggest you conserve your strength, _Captain_," he interrupted her tirade smoothly, an underlying tension present in his voice.

He was still pressed against her, making no move to get off any time soon.

She looked away for a second, then back at him. "And how would I know if you can be trusted?"

"You don't," he shot back immediately.

Shoving at him again, she asked quietly, "Getting comfortable?"

Jack sensed her acquiescence in the way her tense body relaxed beneath him. "Now we're talking," he said mockingly and shifted off her, rolling to his feet in a single, graceful motion. "C'mon."

By the time she was on her feet and dusting herself off, he was already standing and patiently waiting for her. When they returned to her house, he checked the perimeter for the last time as she went to get her things.

Jack walked back into the kitchen through the back door when he saw her emerge from her room. "All done?"

She curtly nodded once.

"Good. Leave your car and keys here and come in mine," he said seriously. "It's too recognisable. We'll get you looked at and then we'll change cars after that."

"What about…?" She gestured to the man still lying in the corridor. "And I should leave the cat with someone."

"We don't have that time. Chances are, someone else might come," he urged. "I'll have someone take care of the house, of everything. Even the cat, I promise."

She hoped he knew what he was doing, because she sure as hell didn't.

The party guests were nearly gone by the time they made their way down to his car across her lawn. She buckled herself into the passenger seat and waited until he was ten minutes into the drive.

"So talk."

"Your Stargate program is not as much of a secret as you think," he began slowly. "And if you join some dots you'll realise why."

She thought back to the day she had accidentally discovered West's duplicitous dalliances with publicly listed aeronautical companies. "I know," she acknowledged, surprising him with her agreement.

"You do?"

"Yeah. That's it's not that much of a secret, I mean," she clarified. "But…why me?"

"What do you think?" He spared her a quick glance, not wanting to get into any detailed explanation until they were both properly patched up. That, and he still didn't feel comfortable with revealing the entire side of his story. Yet.

But she didn't reply, staring ahead resolutely, her brow furrowed in apprehension.

"That still doesn't explain very much."

O'Neill kept silent. He had brought the car to a stop, she realised, having driven them to another neighbourhood across town. She didn't recognise this place; then again, she had hardly taken any time to explore Colorado Springs when most of her time was spent on base ever since she had moved across the country.

The build of the small house looked similar to hers, and through the half-drawn curtains, she saw that the living room lights were still on.

"Where are we? I thought we were going to a doctor?" Sam finally ventured to ask.

"I promised that I'd get you to a doctor. I didn't say we were going to a hospital," he said curtly.

She considered his response and nodded.

They were lucky to have escaped relatively unscathed, Jack thought as he rang the doorbell. The lights in the house were dimmed but switched on, so someone had to be home.

But, oh, the irony.

He had done exactly the opposite of what his superiors had tasked him to do; by saving her he had inadvertently thrown in his dice with hers, forcibly linking their paths ahead together. Carter had shown more resistance than he'd thought she would, but then again, she was no damsel in distress but a soldier with a…scientific bent. Jack briefly speculated on how they would fare together in the coming days, then banished the thought from his head. He'd never been in such a situation and he suspected, neither had she, having stayed far on the good side of the military regulations. But while he did respect them, it didn't take that much to breach those rules when his own convictions overwhelmed the orders given to him, especially if and when it meant that he could return from a mission and still keep his men's families intact, even though his own had been crumbling.

That however, was all about to change and he knew that in the coming days, that Samantha Carter's resolve would be sorely tested. He'd known veterans who had broken from such strains and wondered if Carter was also headed in that direction, now that the comfortable rug of military familiarity had been pulled, unwittingly, from under her feet.

It was going to be a show that he wasn't looking forward to see, like a useless bystander watching a train wreck about to happen.

He'd be utterly useless to her in that department.

Not when his own emotions hadn't even settled, not when he hadn't quite confronted his own demons yet. Comfort and reassurance weren't his strong suit. That much was obvious in the days following Charlie's death, when he'd proven himself an inadequate pillar of support to Sara.

Jack blinked, clearing the invasive thoughts, bringing himself back to the present.

Now all he needed to do was to pick up some spare medication; if not for her, at least for himself. There was only one person in Colorado Springs whom he knew he could trust.

The opening of the door stirred him out of his musings as he lifted his hand to ring the bell a second time.

"Jack?"

"Janet, thank God you're here," he breathed in relief, "we need your help."


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 9**

**Janet Fraiser's residence  
Colorado Springs  
17 September 1995**

When Janet Frasier had settled down for a stiff drink and a mindless movie after a long, hard shift at the hospital patching up broken patients, she hadn't expected even more battered people showing up at her doorstep.

Jack O'Neill was looking the worse for wear, and at his side was the same Captain – bleeding in the arm – with whom she had conversed barely a week ago and looking at her in stunned surprise.

Her doctor's instincts kicked in.

She ushered them in quickly, pushing them onto the couch before they could say another word and left to get her first aid kit. The questions could wait a while.

When she returned, they hadn't moved, sitting together in stoic silence.

"OK," she commanded gently. "Jack, you first. And if you don't mind me saying, you look like –"

"Crap? Hell? Shit?" he snorted. "I've had worse."

It dawned on her then. Of course, how could she have forgotten? Russia, Iraq…and who knew what more?

He sat uncomfortably under her hard scrutiny, waiting for her to bring out the needles he dreaded, or that penlight he hated. Janet saw his discomfited expression and let an amused smile slide across her face.

That part, she knew too well. His fidgety nature was never more apparent every time he was forcibly medically examined.

"Contrary to what you might think, I won't be giving you any shots this time, Jack," she said dryly, applying gauze to stem the residual bleeding. "You have a slight nasal fracture, but it's more bruised than broken, which is good news for you. Now, where else hurts?"

Jack opened his mouth to argue, but thought the better of it when she sent him an admonishing look.

He lifted his shirt slightly and she winced at the darkening bruise that looked like it was going to hurt like hell in the next few days. As far as she knew, Jack O'Neill typically refused medical help, or at least did so when he thought that he was well enough to escape a doctor's clutches.

"From what I can see, you have bruised ribs. I don't know if they're fractured; the severity of your injury can't be determined until I can get your chest x-rays, or a CT scan –," she suggested.

"No hospital, doc," he interrupted firmly. "Which is why I'm visiting you here. In fact," he broke off and stole a glance at Carter, "we'll need to be going very soon."

Janet stared at him steadily, knowing that Jack O'Neill had enough secrets to keep in his life. He looked haggard and worn since she had last seen him – which was, admittedly, a very long time ago – and was quite unmistakably, radiating underlying anxiety and tension from the way he sat and held himself rigidly. She also knew that he probably still worked in the background, doing things that many other people couldn't do. But his convictions were strong and his stubborn streak a mile wide when he acted on them. All too often, his instincts had been proven right. He'd also made decisions that weren't always perfect, and she'd seen him punished for them, sometimes unfairly so. It was a darkly attractive trait; one that many had been drawn to, also being the reason why men would follow him willingly to the death.

She finally nodded in grudging acceptance. "Applying ice is your best option. It's particularly effective in the first seventy-two hours after an injury. Ice will help reduce the pain and swelling so that the bruised tissue can heal. If you can spare me ten minutes, I'll get you one right now."

"Thanks, doc," he called out as she headed towards her kitchen.

When she came back with the ice-pack, Jack was fiddling with the packet of gauze, looking at his badly scuffed shoes.

"Now, when the swelling goes down, you can apply a warm compress, take a warm bath or use –"

"I assisted as a field medic before. I know what to do," Captain Carter cut in, speaking for the first time since they'd entered her house.

"Good," Janet replied simply, "then I wouldn't have to worry about him." Seeing the unspoken question in the Captain's eyes, she smiled and said, "Now, Captain Samantha Carter, if I remember you correctly."

"Dr. Fraiser, we –," Sam began, only for Janet to stop her in mid-sentence.

"Captain, you have to let me look at your injuries first. The rest can wait a few more minutes."

Saline solution inundated her wound and spilled onto the light cream fabric of the couch. She held still, waiting for the inevitable sting of an antiseptic lotion.

She hissed in discomfort when it came.

"You're lucky. A bullet graze damages the first couple of layers of skin, but as you can see, it isn't life threatening," Janet announced, before dressing Sam's arm efficiently. "It's just a deep, deep scrape and there would be a considerable amount of bleeding, initially. Nothing that painkillers and antibiotics won't take care of, if you want to be sure."

"Some whiskey might help."

Janet turned to Jack knowingly and stood up. "Usually, I wouldn't recommend it with the pills I'm going to give you. But you know, that may be just what we need tonight."

She returned with three glasses filled with golden liquid, watching Jack down his in a gulp.

"Thank, Janet," he said sincerely. "You don't know how much I—"

"How do you two know each other?" Sam asked, taking a small sip of hers.

She held up a hand and eyed the unlikely pair. "No changing the subject. First, I want to know what happened. And what brought both of you to my doorstep together."

"Luck?" Jack asked nonchalantly, smirking at her.

She sent him a warning glance. "Jack?"

"There's someone on my six, Janet. I also have reason to think that there's someone else on Carter's," Jack said seriously. "And obviously you know I can't tell you why."

"Yeah," she said slowly. "I understand that bit. But what I don't know is how you and Captain Carter got into this together."

"It's a long story."

Janet knew hedging when she saw it. "Look, Jack," she sighed when she saw his unmoving stance. "I've not seen you in a few years ever since…well, you know. Then suddenly, both of you show up this late at night at my house, injured, together…you've got to admit that's beyond unusual."

"I know," he said. "But we needed the help, Janet. All I know is there's a lot more going on than we know about, which is why you knowing less is better for all of us."

It was going to be a statement that he was going to make quite a bit in the coming days to fend off unwanted questions.

"Jack, I can't say I like this," she paused, hesitating, wondering if her directness was going to offend him. "But I heard about Charlie and Sara from Louis Ferretti and…I'm sorry to hear it, Jack." She saw him blanch for a spilt-second, then his face was schooled blank. "I'm afraid of what's going on here. I'm afraid for you."

He looked down into his empty glass, wishing suddenly that he had more to drink. "Yeah," he said finally after a minute of silence and sighed heavily. "Me too. Janet, please. Don't ask more. I can't give it to you."

She gave him a hard look and fell silent.

Sam watched the conversation between Frasier and O'Neill with growing interest. It was obvious that they were long-time friends from the deep concern she had for him, and from the absolute trust he put in her.

"Dr. Frasier, thanks for doing this," she said, lifting her arm a bit, breaking the awkward silence that had fallen in the living room.

The doctor turned to her and smiled. "It's Janet. And Captain, for what it's worth, I'm sorry about Catherine Langford. That we couldn't do more."

"And I'm sorry about Catherine too," she replied, "She was a good person, a good friend."

"As much as we want to stay, Janet, I think it's time we go," Jack cut in, frowning at his watch.

"Hold on," she commanded and handed over several packs of medical supplies to him. "You'll need this, wherever you're going. Do what you need to do, Jack. Just stay safe."

"Thanks."

Their eyes met. His showed his tremendous gratitude, while hers reflected her trepidation and worry. Janet was the first to look away.

Sam and Jack stood up stiffly, making their way to the front door. The blond Captain walked through and headed for his rental.

He followed her, but as he stood a step over the threshold, he stopped, hesitating, lifting his hand to Janet's shoulder. "There's something else I need you to take care of. At the Captain's house."

He bent over and whispered in low tones.

"You sure about this?"

"No," he said grimly. "But it's all I can do."

* * *

**Colorado state border  
17 September 1995**

In a few minutes, they had left the suburbs behind, the urban landscape getting sparser as Jack navigated the car away from civilisation.

"Where're we heading?"

"The car's got to go," he replied. "We need to find another means of transport."

Sam was silent for a moment. "I know a place."

They swung into a disused junkyard twenty minutes later and dumped the rental. Next to it was a small second-hand car repair shop, with several cars in different states of disrepair parked out front. She made quick work of the lock and chain that held its metal gates loosely closed and made her way to the closest sedan that looked decently fixed up.

Its engine roar was loud in the still of the night.

He looked up in surprised admiration, then turned to grab their stuff to throw in the back.

"It's tanked up," she called out.

"Good." One less problem to worry about. "Want to drive?" He asked.

"OK. Where to?"

He thought for a moment. "Head east. But let's get out of state first. Drive as much as you can, and pull up in the first motel you see after you pass the freeway."

She nodded quizzically and started to climb into the driver's seat. He stopped her. "Look, I know this is asking a lot of you. But just a while more, OK?"

Surprised at that show of sympathy, she nodded, then examined herself and O'Neill critically, having gained a measure of calm at Janet Fraiser's house. Part of his shirt had been torn away, his boots scuffed and dirty. She probably didn't look much better than him. In fact, they looked like tramps who'd gotten on the wrong side of the law. Fugitives. Illegals. Which really weren't too far from the truth, she thought morosely.

The thick silence in the car that had descended wasn't as tense as she'd expect. She looked at O'Neill. He was staring out of the passenger seat's window, lost in thought.

She turned back to the road, desperately wishing that a motel would swing into view. Moonlight bathed the road a ghostly white, its brightness growing as the lights of the city faded behind them. It wasn't everyday that she was on the run with a complete stranger; despite him seeming safe enough, she was still struggling to force her mind into a semblance of order.

"Janet served as a field medic with my contingent some time ago," O'Neill said abruptly, cutting through the building tension. "While tending to someone in the field, she got caught in enemy fire."

She risked a surprised glance at him with both her hands on the wheel. "I didn't know Janet's military."

"She was."

Asking why would have been too intrusive, his short answer told her as much. It didn't seem her place to ask more.

"So that's where you met, all those years ago?"

He nodded and chuckled humourlessly. "My team pulled her out, defying the order to retreat. It turned out to be a good call, despite us getting our ass chewed out for doing something so stupid behind enemy lines. Later, she patched us up and saved us all, including my CO who wanted us to leave her behind."

Her gaze turned speculative. O'Neill's stop at Janet's house was the biggest surprise of the night, perhaps even more so than the surprise attack earlier in the evening. It was something she understood, but probably not as well as he did. Near-death experiences tended to forge close bonds of friendship, but his familiarity with her had to have gone further than just that single mission he'd brought up. Whatever his relationship with the doctor was, the apparent camaraderie they shared was evident. "Guess you have much to be grateful for, huh?"

"You have no idea." Squinting in the dim light, he made out a weathered sign that read 'Aurora Suites, 10 miles'.

"Yeah, I see it too," she said. "Do we stop there for the night?"

"Might be the best idea for now. Regroup. Get some shut-eye."

"Yes, Sir," she responded wryly.

"For cryin' out loud, Carter."


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 10**

**Aurora Suites  
Colorado state border  
17 September 1995**

All the rooms were full, save one. He blamed it on bad luck and bad timing. To her credit, Carter didn't even bat an eyelid. He threw out a wad of cash on the reception table and stalked off, carrying what he could to their room.

She followed him, blinking in surprise at the tiny size of the room and at the double bed that took up most of the space.

"Sorry, Carter, but it's the best we've got," O'Neill turned to her from his position at the window. He fingered the curtain and studied the dark shadows of building beyond the glass.

"Beggars can't be choosers," she snapped.

He was surprised at her grudging acceptance, but didn't think to mention the thing about him and clichés. Instead, he studied her; she looked exhausted but still whole. "You OK?"

"Under such circumstances? This has got to qualify as one of the strangest nights of my life."

She grabbed her backpack and rummaged through it for her water canteen. Taking a swig, she stared at him. He was unreadable, the intensity in his eyes betraying his deceptively casual stance as he leaned on the window sill.

"Sit," he said, gesturing at the bed, unknowingly having given her an order.

She complied, seeing him take the chair next to the dresser.

Where to start? He sorted through a host of possibilities. Carter was asking about his involvement in this whole fiasco. While he searched for a way to tell her, he knew that she certainly deserved that much of an explanation. He fully intended to give it to her. He just didn't know how she'd take it when she learned of his original mission.

"More people have access to the top-secret Stargate project than you think," he began unhurriedly, stalling. "And I think, that there are those who are unwilling for it to get any further."

"Like the one who was sent after me?"

He paused, thinking a bit. "I don't know how much that guy knew, but there's every possibility that he was just another ignorant agent following his orders."

"Is that where you come in? The Special Forces had a hand in the project?"

"I don't know everything," he replied truthfully, thankful that she hadn't quite pursued the first question actively. Yet. "And I was hoping, you could help me fill in some blanks." By all accounts, his mission was a bust. He'd done the unthinkable, a complete reversal of what he'd been told to do. Yet it didn't mean that he was all that willing to spill all his indiscretions just yet.

"Help you?" Sam questioned incredulously, shaking her head. "Just what do you know about it?"

"Some things," he hedged. "Enough to know that the project was getting back on its feet, thanks to you, Captain."

She looked him in disbelief. "How did you know that? Where were…were there –? God, I don't know what to think."

He sighed_. _You owe it to her, O'Neill, he told himself.

She was sitting up straight, her bottle clutched to her almost protectively.

"I got my orders nearly two weeks ago. They were unusual, given under strange circumstances –," he started, then put up his hand when he saw her about to ask a question. "Let me finish. Then you can ask all you want."

See her nod her agreement, he continued, "I was given two weeks to finish my assignment, and all the resources possible to help me finish it. It was easy at first, studying the target, finding out about the target's lifestyle and work. I reported my findings at regular intervals. Then things started to happen."

He was silent for so long, having turned his gaze to the carpeted floor that she thought he had finished. Her shoulders slumped in relief. He had accomplished his mission; he had protected the interest of the Special Forces and taken out the man who now lay dead in her house.

"But you got the target right?" She urged him on. "I'm alive, I'm here. You got the guy. Mission accomplished."

"No, I failed," he put in calmly. "That's because you were the target."

She recoiled instantly, moving too quickly for his liking to pull out her Beretta from her holster.

"Put the gun down, Carter," he said languidly. He spread his hands out slowly, never breaking his gaze from hers. "I didn't take you out then, I'm not going to do so now."

Sam kept her hold on the Beretta tight, flicking the safety off. She didn't know whether to believe him, this armed, dangerous man who had killed someone in her house, yet got her medical attention because he'd believed her hurt, and was now sitting three paces away from her. He said her name with military familiarity, the same way a commanding officer addressed his subordinates and it was clear that he had grown comfortable addressing her this way when she was under his surveillance. Like she was one of those he knew, rather than an anonymous target he took out.

She hadn't corrected him. Her friends called her Sam. It was a measure of familiarity that was still not granted to him.

Still, she wouldn't hold her breath.

"So what changed your mind?" Sam gritted out, watching his relaxed stance. "How could I know you wouldn't do anything else later?"

"Because I was convinced something went wrong somewhere."

"What? What went wrong?" She retorted, lowering her gun a fraction. "What could go so wrong that would make you countermand your orders?"

"Why didn't you tell West that you've solved last symbol of the Stargate?" He shot back, getting annoyed with the way things were playing out.

"I asked first," she said, glaring at him. "What made you decide not to kill me?"

"Carter, I wasn't trying to be difficult," he placated. "Your withholding information from West told me something else was going on. And then there was Langford's accident to complicate things. The man they sent after you? I'm sure that was his partner had tried to take me out earlier this evening."

The surprise of his revelation had caused her to lower the gun completely. He guessed that it was a good sign.

"Why?"

"You tell me," he shrugged. "I figured that I was taking way too long to complete my mission. They got impatient."

"That was enough for you to not go against your orders. But that didn't mean that you needed to save me."

"Oh, Carter, I did, believe me," he drawled in affirmation. "Your military record checks out flawlessly. Several university degrees by the time you were twenty-six, a PhD in astrophysics, piloting experience in the Gulf, then deep-space radar telemetry under Cheyenne Mountain? Nothing that I can see warrants such an action against you. You're probably the Air Force's national treasure. Far be it from me to deprive our country of that."

Despite herself, Sam felt her cheeks starting to colour at that backhanded compliment he'd just paid her. "So you decided to play hero?"

"That too," he agreed mockingly. "But it being the right thing to do might have also been a factor."

_God, the man was impossible_, she thought. Getting a straight answer from him was like getting her teeth pulled. His insolence and his complete disregard for those orders had thrown her for a loop – not that she was ungrateful. That maverick behaviour of his – and she was beginning to suspect that it came up quite a bit in his years of service – was so foreign, so contrasting to her pedantic one when it came to the Air Force. That he would defy his orders to do what suited his convictions both horrified and amazed her. And if she guessed correctly, both of them were in deep trouble.

He didn't seem to say more, waiting for her questions instead.

"Are you even military? Let's not even mention Special Forces."

"Yes to all," he replied. "Black ops ring a bell to you? Want my ID?"

"Wouldn't hurt to see it, you know," she taunted. In response, he sighed irritably and pulled out his service card from his wallet, shoving it at her.

"Happy?"

She studied the card carefully, its laminated surface glinting under the glare of the cheap fluorescent lamps.

_Jonathan O'Neill, Colonel  
Service number: 69-4-141 _

They had sent a black ops soldier after her. A Colonel in the Special Forces, three ranks above her, with a wealth of untold experience. She would have been dead a long time ago had he not followed his own instincts.

"So who sent you? And why?" Her stance didn't relent. She tossed the card back at him.

"Believe it or not, it's hard to tell," he told her seriously, pocketing the card. "There is a certain protocol you follow during every mission briefing. The tactical team comes together and hashes out a risk analysis. There's a lot of strategic planning that goes on as well. When it's all done, it's given the go-head by the head honchos up there." He pointed his finger in the vague direction of the ceiling. "A one-man operation is uncommon, but it does happen. You get the support you need, but then you're on your own."

She thought she'd understood what he was saying. Like every soldier, they'd expected him to jump as high as they wanted, whenever they wanted. But they'd not considered the unpredictability of human behaviour, and O'Neill's penchant for treading – and crossing – these fine lines. Or maybe they had, and still took their chances with him.

"You said it was different this time."

He nodded. "Yeah, the whole clichéd cloak-and-dagger routine. I was just given a note for this. I accessed my assignment details from a special program they'd written. I don't know who was behind this."

"Pretty flimsy excuse," she pointed out caustically.

He ignored her comeback. "The lack of details was telling. All of my missions had taken place overseas. That's what the black ops teams do. Internal jobs? Not too much."

"But then you started digging." It was starting to dawn on her.

O'Neill had asked too much questions and done too little. And he'd decided to trust his own gut rather than his orders.

"Let's just say what I found out what I wasn't supposed to know. Then my systems locked up, and I found someone to tussle with a few minutes later. Coincidence? I doubt it," he said, running his fingers through his hair absently, causing it to stick out in all directions. "My orders were to just take you out. I wasn't told anything more. Like a good soldier, I was to follow them."

"Like a good soldier," she echoed dully. "And?"

"They sent someone after me, at the motel where I was staying," he added. "I figured that they came after me for not doing my job. They came after you for the original purpose – which, as I already said, I don't know about – and to finish what I started."

"You followed me, didn't you?" She asked, stamping down the sudden flare of anger at the violation of privacy after seeing him nod once. "So, what did you find out?"

"Military bases are linked by a network. I just accessed mine, and got a few run-arounds to get to NORAD. From there, it wasn't hard to get access to the network under Cheyenne Mountain…and your computers. What did I find out? The most incredible story that comes out of the pages of a book," he said calmly. "That there was a strange device several storeys high underground. That many people worked on it and had been for decades. That you were on the verge of discovering something, and then finally did, after your meeting with Daniel Jackson. I did more than follow you. From your DNA trace, I knew where you were every time of the day. Recording and broadcasting devices planted in your house told me what you said and did at home," he said bluntly.

Each word hit her hard. He had been nothing but honest, and perhaps a tad bit apologetic for having to face someone who, by all accounts, shouldn't been alive to feel violated about what he'd done.

But O'Neill wasn't giving her the space to back away. Neither was he going to apologise for doing his job thoroughly. He leaned closer, closely watching her face. "Now why didn't you reveal your findings to West?"

Of course he would know, she realised. There was sufficient personal documentation about the seventh symbol that he had accessed when she wrote that detailed report that day. All her research – her findings on atmospheric spikes, her documentation of the device's composition, her hypothesis of its function – had been laid open to him. O'Neill wasn't a fool; he had read enough to know what was going on at least where her work was concerned, despite the technobabble.

"I was going to," she admitted. "It was supposed to be the greatest scientific achievement of my life. When I had figured out about the point of origin and its symbol in my lab, I went to his office. Only that he wasn't there. He'd just left the room and I caught him at the wrong time. Or maybe it was the right time, now that I think about it." She grimaced, remembering the incident. "In his haste, he'd knocked over several pieces of papers, all of which were detailed contracts that he'd made with aeronautical companies. He was to get millions of dollars in exchange for sharing the Stargate technology."

Jack whistled low. That explained a lot. So Carter herself had uncovered some dealings that the director of the programme had ongoing. It also meant that her thorough research on these external companies hadn't been her going through potential job offers.

"So you decided not to tell him?"

"No," she murmured. "I assumed that West had sent someone after me because I found out something."

"Wouldn't it be stupid to kill their own science expert? Especially when you're the only one who can get it working?" Jack questioned ironically.

She snorted. "Everyone can be replaced. The hitmen just proved that."

It was a sombre reminder of their own situation. Carter's unexpected revelation about West's underhanded dealings had added an unforeseen aspect to this already complicated state of affairs. Despite his belief that Carter was too valuable a resource to dispose of, he still needed to consider the possibility of West having found out about her knowledge of his indiscretions and had done something about it.

"Is that why you didn't return to the base?"

"There was no way of knowing if there were people there keeping tabs on me," she pointed out, relaxing unconsciously. Their conversation had gone some way in reassuring her that O'Neill wasn't lying. "So, what do we do?"

He looked at her wan, tired face and was suddenly struck by how young – and beautiful – she looked.

"I think," he said slowly and stood, "that it is time for some rest. You can take the bed."

He grabbed some clothes and disappeared into the bathroom. A minute later, she heard the shower running. Too tired to argue, she leaned back on the pillows and checked the bedside clock. 0305 hrs.

Closing her eyes, she didn't even hear him emerge from the shower and settle in the chair next to the bed.

Jack looked at her sleeping form. He checked his gun and made sure that a full magazine was loaded in it, laid it on the table beside him, and then fell into a light doze.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 11**

**Colorado state border  
18 September 1995**

Jack figured that a mug of steaming coffee held under her nose would stir her to wakefulness.

He was right. Carter hadn't moved from her position since falling asleep last night. As the steam wafted towards her nose, she rolled onto her back, then blinked awake wincing as she immediately tried to stretch out her stiff muscles.

As she stumbled into wakefulness, he saw the exact moment she realised it wasn't her bed that she'd woken in.

"Mornin'," he greeted amiably as her eyes snapped to his in a split second of panic. Then recognition flooded her face as she slowly reached up to take the proffered mug.

"Thanks," she tried, looking absently at the quilt cover at a loss for words. Realising that he was dressed to go and she was…still in the previous day's stale clothes, she winced. "Think I have time for a shower?

"I don't see why not," Jack shrugged, handing her the duffel that had fallen to the floor some time in the early hours of the morning. "Unless they've figured us out already."

"Are we leaving immediately?"

"As much as I like to stay, I find the room service lacking."

She conceded, the faint beginnings of a smile tilting the corners of her mouth.

When she emerged from her bath ten minutes later, he tossed her a muesli bar that he had packed as part of his emergency supplies. "Breakfast."

He got a raised eyebrow from her. "Really."

"I told you room service is nothing to crow about."

She smiled this time, but it didn't reach her eyes, opening the breakfast bar to take a bite.

He turned to her and sat at the edge of the bed, his face serious. "There is something else I didn't tell you last night."

She saw his hesitation and felt her breath leave her. "What?

He exhaled harshly. "I don't know if Langford's death is an accident."

He watched her now. Her bewildered eyes were fixed on the floor, struggling to absorb that he'd just said.

"Catherine died of multiple organ failure, a complication that resulted from her fall," she steadily repeated Janet Frasier's words to her at the hospital, daring him to contradict the official cause of death. It was all that she could muster right now.

He was silent a moment, weighing his next words. "I knew that Langford had taken a fall. I followed you that day you visited her house. You left in a hurry that day. I stayed and walked up the steps that led to her house. But I didn't go in."

"And?"

He changed tack. "How long had Catherine been living in that house?"

Thrown off track by his non-sequitur, she frowned in confusion. "I don't know, a pretty long time I guess."

"Did you go there often? Was the house newly refurbished, or recently painted?"

"I…I really don't remember," she stammered. "We never visited each other much, but just hung out a lot in the mess hall at the base."

He continued his line of questioning. "When you were there, was there anything out of place in her house? Indicating a search of some kind?"

"I didn't notice," she admitted. "Her house had been left as though she'd expected to be back for dinner. O'Neill, you're not making much sense with –."

"There were scratches on the railings," he cut in, "I don't know what that means, but it looked like a struggle had taken place."

For the second time that morning, Sam forgot to breathe. If Catherine had been killed because of her own research in advancing the Stargate project, then whoever had been planning this had been keeping tabs on its progress for a substantial period of time. And if what O'Neill said was true, then Catherine had died tragically…and unaccountably. But with little evidence to prove otherwise, she was just another elderly patient who had suffered the devastating consequences of a fall and had been treated as such.

Unexpectedly, she felt tears well in her eyes and she bit them back hard, feeling the loss anew.

"I want to know who's behind this."

Jack watched her jaw tighten in determination. She was casting her lot with his, in a move that was entirely too stupid or too brave. They were going to run like the fugitives they were, hunting down a trail that may or may not exist, while being hunted by the very same people they were pursuing. A very dangerous game of cat and mouse leading to an outcome that he wasn't too sure about yet. Not for the first time in his life, he felt off-kilter, like a ship with an anchor that had come loose, adrift in the turbulent waves.

Still, she had to know what she was in for. "It's far from a piece of cake, Carter," he warned. "It's not a camping trip. There's no turning back, no stopping, no definite time frame."

"I know," she said quietly.

Jack stared at her hard, and she did not withdraw her gaze from his. Finally, he acquiesced, trusting her to make her own decisions.

"OK," he nodded. "Then pack your bags. It's time to go."

"Where to?"

"Ferret out information on West and Vandenburg, my supposed CO," Jack said and stood up. "What have you got with you?"

"My classified work and my laptop," Sam replied and looked at his duffel bags speculatively. "But you probably have more sophisticated stuff in there, given how you've managed to penetrate the highest military security barriers."

"I'm locked out, remember? No access to the internal network anymore to do any mischief."

"We'll see what we can do about that," she answered wryly. "And since it's not too secret anymore, could I have a look?"

He waved a hand vaguely in that direction. "Knock yourself out."

She was onto the equipment like a child who thought Christmas had come early, rummaging through the wiretaps, his laptop, the broadcast and surveillance hardware and software, marvelling at their non-standard issue sizes and sophisticated make.

Her sudden laugh spilled over, strangely warming his insides.

"I think we could do something with these," she said, and pulled out the dark wig he'd used when he had first arrived, her eyes shining in excitement.

Jack shrugged. "Makes the damn scalp itch."

Who knew that Carter would have gotten such a kick out of this?

She was still busily rifling through the technology. "This is amazing. I never knew that some of these even existed."

"Carter, when you're finished playing with my doohickeys, we really ought to go."

"Right," she said, snapping the lid of the laptop shut. "You know someone we could visit, you said?"

He nodded. "He's a couple of hours away. Or at least he owes me one."

"Special Forces too?" She made a guess.

"Nope, a farmer," he grinned slightly and took a swig of his own coffee.

* * *

The journey eastwards was spent mostly in silence. O'Neill was in the driver's seat, pushing the car as fast as he could just slightly over the speed limit. Watching him take a particularly steep corkscrew turn too quickly, Sam braced herself for the force that would push her against the door.

She thought of Catherine's funeral, and the house and the job she'd left behind. Suddenly she was fifteen again, walking into the funeral parlour in a dark dress, laying a rose on her mother's coffin, unanchored to reality as she numbly accompanied the pallbearers down the aisle of the local church.

She sullenly willed the image away and stared at the flattening landscape as they crossed the state boundary into Nebraska.

They made a stop midway at Stratton to pick up a few essential supplies and to use the public facilities. He wore a cap pulled low over his head and dark glasses shaded half his face from scrutiny, his hands tucked low into his baggy pants. She had pulled the hood of her sweater over her head, large sunglasses shielding her eyes. Together, they made an odd-looking pair, like grown-ups who never outgrew the moody teenage fashion phase that favoured hoodies and low-slung baggy jeans.

An hour later, he stopped the car at a woody rest area that looked out into the farmlands. She grabbed their take-outs and lay them on the bench.

"I've been thinking," she said between mouthfuls.

He gave her a sideways glance and bit into his sandwich. "Let's hear it."

"We're heading east, aren't we?" She asked and saw his answering nod. "I know a few friends who might know more."

"And where would this be?"

"I've got several places in mind. California or Iowa to start with."

"Carter, we're still quite a distance away from either."

"I know. But these people can help us."

He stood and cleared the remains of his meal. "We'll see what we can do," he promised.

* * *

**North Platte, Nebraska  
18 September 1995**

Jack knocked on the large wooden door, hoping that the man was in and not out traipsing in one of his large fields somewhere.

It swung open, revealing a frazzled, plump lady of about sixty, her frizzy grey hair curled around her ears and her floral apron liberally stained with tomato sauce.

"Mrs Payner?" He pulled off his cap and sunglasses, and saw her smile in delighted recognition. "Is this a bad time?"

"Jackie? Jackie O'Neill? Come in! I see you've brought a guest! I've got pizza in the oven so I'm sure you'll want to stay for dinner," she said, ushering them into the living room.

He grimaced in mild alarm at her pet name for him, and stepped into the welcoming interior with Carter in tow, trying to ignore her barely-suppressed grin.

"Mrs Payner, this is Samantha Carter," he started out. "Carter, this is Mrs Rosalind Payner."

"Pleased to meet you, dear," she greeted warmly. "Now sit first, talk later."

She sat them down in the dining room that looked out into the patio, then hurried into the kitchen, promising to be back with tea and biscuits.

"So, Jackie, huh?" Carter grinned, enjoying his discomfiture.

"Not now, Sammie," he snapped, then smirked when he saw her smile fade.

The afternoon sunlight shone through open patio doors, casting a golden hue on the dark wood flooring and the creamy white walls. Rosalind Payner returned bearing a tray with a large ceramic teapot and blue onion teacups placed on matching saucers and a plate of cookies.

"So, Jackie," she winked. "What brings you to my door this fine autumn day? And with a lovely young lady too! Are you two –?"

"Er…Ma'am…Cart – I mean, Sam is just a friend," he stuttered, caught out by her erroneous assumption. "Actually, I'm hoping to speak to your husband."

"The last time I remember, I told you to call me Rosie," she admonished lightly, her gaze turning slightly wary and knowing. "So you're here for _that_ sort of business. Colin's in the fields actually, talking to one of his farm hands. He'll be back soo– speak of the devil!"

Footsteps sounded across the hardwood floor.

"Rosie? Do we have company?" A jovial voice called out.

A tall, redheaded man wearing a reddish-brown plaid shirt and faded jeans strode into the dining room, putting a face to the voice. A huge grin split his face, partially obscured by the bushy red beard he sported when he saw his guests.

"Jack O'Neill! It has been hell of a long time!" He crossed the space much quicker than a man of his advanced years could and pulled him into a hug.

"Good to see you too, Sir," Jack greeted.

"Retired, son. And your lovely companion is …?"

"Samantha Carter," she put in quickly before any more embarrassing remarks could be made, stretching out her hand to shake his.

"Colin Payner."

"They're here to see you, actually," Rosie Payner said quietly.

The air turned sombre. Husband and wife exchanged guarded looks.

"We'd better go behind," Payner said in a soft tone. He looked at his wife and she nodded.

"I'll go check on dinner."

He watched his wife leave, and sighed.

"Come, let's go."

He brought them to his study, a sanctuary constructed with solid Indian Rosewood furnishing. A sole lived-in couch lay in the corner in front of a cabinet of files with a small coffee table next to it,.

"So, what do you need?" Payner asked without preamble. "I told you all those years ago that if you needed help, I'll do everything I can."

"Yeah, well, about that…"

"Spit it out, son."

"We'll need a place to stay for the night."

"That can't be all."

"And some information. On two people. General Winston Orville West and General Peter Vandenburg."

"You in trouble?" The question was asked too casually.

"Best you don't ask."

"Don't you give me that, son. I won't be helping a felon," Payner warned.

"Col, please."

"You don't know what you're asking."

"I know exactly what I'm asking," Jack pleaded. "Please, Col. Just this once. I've never asked you for anything like this before. We need to know."

The old man sighed and slumped in his chair. "I'll make some calls," he conceded. "But don't get your hopes up."

"That's all I'm asking, Col," Jack said. "Thanks."

Payner looked mildly appeased. "You'll stay the night, won't you?"

"Er…well…we," Carter started out, the rest of what she'd intended to stay cut off by his wagging finger.

"No arguing, young lady."

"But we –"

"Col, we shouldn't exactly be out in the public eye," Jack said finally.

There was no mistaking what Jack meant. Payner fell silent, considering Jack's words. His mouth tightened into a thin line and he looked up at the younger man standing in stoic determination, and then at his beautiful companion who seemed to radiate anxiety.

"Jack, if I didn't know better, I'd think that –"

"Sir, we'll stay the night," Carter hurriedly interrupted, drawing a hard look from Payner.

"The less I know the better," he exhaled sharply and announced with emphatic finality. "There's a smaller ranch about seven miles north of this land. It was actually meant for Kenneth. When he came back after serving his time."

"Kenneth? Carter asked curiously.

"My son. Jack didn't say a word?" Payner snorted when she responded in the negative. "Nine years ago, my son was involved in Operation El Dorado Canyon. The F-111 that he was flying was shot down over the Gulf of Sidra. Our own government wouldn't even admit that the aircraft had been shot down. Gave some excuse like systems failure or piloting error. My boy wasn't careless. He had a good record, took his work seriously. I went after those who I knew but no one had anything for me for a long, long time."

"Accidents do happen, sir," she said softly. She could commiserate; she knew what it was like to lose someone in the family.

His eyes misted over in remembrance. "It took many, months. Negotiating with the Libyan government. I was sure he was alive, and held for ransom. And then…" he shook his head sadly. "Then he was gone. Just like that. Wasn't the rescue team's fault that he died before they reached him. But Jack…Jack brought his body home to us. I'll always be in his debt. You know, no father should ever have to outlive his son and Jack –"

"Col," Jack interrupted sharply before the old man could go any further.

Payner fell silent and eyed the younger man speculatively, not missing the small shake of his head.

"Hostage negotiation?" Carter said after a long minute and turned to him, her eyebrows raised.

Jack wasn't surprised when Carter felt the need to disperse the tension. That intuition of hers would get her further in this than he'd originally thought. He glared at her then addressed Payner gratefully, thankful that Payner hadn't the chance to mention Charlie. "Thank you, Col."

"Don't thank me yet," the elder man said irritably. "We now use it for guests who come to stay. But our last ones were some cousins of Rosie and they've probably left the place in a bit of a mess. The bed's clean but many things aren't in place."

"That's all that we ask, Col."


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 12**

**Area 51, Department of Science and Engineering  
South Nevada  
18 September 1995**

"Report, Dr. Michaels."

Never fully at ease in the General's presence, Michaels fidgeted and shifted his feet. "Sir, further study showed that for the brief period of time that the extraterrestrial craft was here, it had actually emitted an electromagnetic pulse that is not dissimilar to the kind of radiation waves that Earth is subject to when sunspots occur. From our assessment, the EM-radiation isn't strong enough to impact even a fifth of an acre of land."

"Is there anything else?"

"The teams are now studying the visual manufacture of the craft that our security cameras captured. Unfortunately, the EM-pulses that it emitted had slightly affected the quality of the video feed. Our initial reports place the craft as an object never before reported in Earth's history, after exhaustive cross-references with historical reports of civilian sightings."

The General turned from where he was overseeing the preparation of another top-secret test flight.

"I'm afraid that's not good enough, Michaels," he reiterated. "Six days ago, an unidentified craft entered Earth's atmosphere undetected, and became visible only when it reached Groom Lake. I want to know why."

"With all due respect, Sir, the technology is beyond us."

He nodded and turned back to the airfield. "Do what you can, Michaels. Keep me apprised."

* * *

**North Platte, Nebraska  
18 September 1995**

The grey clouds hung low in the sky, moving over the sun that cast its yellow last rays on the prairie landscape. The extensive sea of grain shimmered golden against the dark sky, trembling in the winds that swept through the rows of neatly planted corn.

Payner's truck was the sole vehicle speeding down the uneven side road, his wheels flinging the sand into the air as he sped towards the guest ranch.

Jack tilted his head out of the window and sniffed. "Smells like rain to me."

"About damn time too," Payner nodded in satisfaction. "The prolonged dry spell's got everyone strung-up. Normally we don't like it much during harvest, but it's been too dry so any moisture is welcome."

He did a sharp left, accelerated up a gentle incline and squealed around another corner onto a barely visible dirt track.

The old ranch was a low-ceilinged building built at the southern, hill edge of the Payner's farm overlooking the skip-rows of corn. He unlocked the door and stepped into its slightly musty interior, drawing the curtains and opening the windows.

A burst of the fresh autumnal air rushed in, carrying the smell of Earthy grass and sunshine.

"Nice dig." Jack whistled his appreciation, looking around.

Bark-coloured paint strategically covered several walls and contrasting white ceilings enlarged the breadth and height of the place. A unified roof-line extended over the back deck and enlarged upper and lower elevated level windows peered into the small backyard. Lacquered white cabinets lined the walk-in pantry, sharing the large open space with the family room.

The place was tastefully decorated, expensively and thoughtfully furnished.

Sam couldn't hide her astonishment. "You really did this up."

Payner grinned at their compliments and gestured to the furnishings. "All Rosie's work. Don't you for one moment think that I actually had a hand in it. Only provided transport and the cash. I keep telling her we should run a bed and breakfast." He gestured towards the back of the house, winking conspiratorially at them. "Now, the bedrooms face the back, but I'll leave you to find them yourself. I'm going to leave you folks to do whatever it is you do. We'll be back bringing your meals. And we're just down the road if you need us. Can't get as safe as this place."

"Yeah, thanks again, Col."

"Thank you, Mr Payner."

"None of that," Payner faced her sternly. "If Jackie here calls me Col, you will too."

Sam flashed him a brilliant grin. "You bet. And I'm Sam."

"Nah, Samantha for me. Call me old school, but my momma didn't raise a gentleman to call a woman by a man's name," he said and wagged a finger at her. "Now, Jack. I'll have something for you by morning."

"Yes, Sir."

Payner let himself out. They stood together at the window watching the tail lights of his truck fade into the distance. Sam crossed her arms and turned to Jack.

"How would a farmer have such contacts?" She asked, puzzled.

Jack chuckled. "Don't let the whole farmer get-up fool you. Col's ex-military. Family tradition. Only resigned his commission in the USAF when his son went missing. He's got feelers far and wide."

"That explains it. His family's wealthy?"

"Didn't know that too. The last I saw him, he told me he was going to retire as a small-time farmer. Said I'd always be welcome in his home. This whole rich farmer thing is a surprise."

"I've never visited a ranch, let alone lived in one. This is pretty incredible to me, if you can forget our circumstances for a while," she admitted ruefully. "I grew up as an Air Force brat. We moved so frequently that our home never really had the time to look like this."

Her sudden openness surprised him. He knew the bare facts about her personal life when he read her file. Now, she was now providing voluntary emotional insight into those events, adding a piece to another part of the complex jigsaw that was Samantha Carter.

It made him feel less like a voyeur, and more like a friend.

Fascinated, he watched her face closely. "Dreamed of a life like this?"

Her sudden laugh was harsh. "I imagine I'd be bored out of my mind before breakfast's done."

Jack had no doubts that she was right. From what he'd seen, her work kept her on her feet. She lived on adrenaline, and would probably never adapt to the slow, routine life of a farmer whose life went through the seasons steadily and surely as the rains came. Their current situation kept her off-balance and if he didn't know better, he'd bet a part of her craved these moments of spontaneity.

"Not the air force wife type then?" He quipped, trying to lighten the moment and then realised all too soon that it was exactly the wrong thing to say.

"I don't think so." Her gaze turned sad but she didn't elaborate.

He was under no illusions of the pressures that Sara had faced. Months of agonised waiting, the burden and the joys of the Charlie's upbringing falling solely on her. Carter's mother probably faced the same difficulties Sara had – and she'd lost hers a long time ago.

"Carter, I know that your mother had a hard time," he said carefully, not wanting to sound too presumptuous about her musings.

"How do you know abo–," she shook her head in exasperation. "I keep forgetting that you've read my file."

He shrugged apologetically. Yet another line that he'd crossed – never to look up the familial details of the target. It humanised them, shaped them into people who had lives to lead and dreams to strive for. In her file, her mother's death was just a printed sentence in a document. Too often, the military brass forgot that tragedy and heartbreak often lay behind the typeface. Now he felt like a bastard for even mentioning it.

"It was a long time ago. But you don't ever forget," she finally said. Then looking up, she boldly asked. "You know all about me. What about you? Any Air Force wife?"

Now he really regretted bringing it up. Not when the thought of Sara led to the thought of Charlie…_don't go there again, O'Neill_, he told himself.

"Not anymore. Separated."

She sighed. "Sorry."

He was relieved when she didn't pry, afraid of what she would think if she knew the whole truth. "Yeah, me too, Carter."

"Let's see what's on TV," she suggested awkwardly and grabbed the remote, passing over the sports channels.

He nodded in gratitude and walked into the kitchen to pour himself a glass of water. He didn't think he could handle very much more of that line of questioning. Not when the pain still felt like stabbing knives in his gut. Not when he couldn't even deal with it himself.

"Want anything?" He called out.

"Diet coke, if there's any."

Jack didn't expect the fridge to be stocked. And it wasn't. He was filling another glass when he heard the sudden, excited squawking of a female reporter on CNN, or thought he did. A burst of static froze her image on screen, which then blinked out totally.

"What's that?" He walked out into the living area where Carter watching the news in rapt attention and placed her glass on the table. "Sorry, all out of diet coke."

The TV flickered on again, jumpy with upward scrolling horizontal grey lines. This time he caught part of the news flash, straining to hear what the reporter was saying.

" –bring you breaking news…affecting parts of…but in the case of...lacking….satellite communication…down…At the time of this report, we have confirmed the interruption of electrical power in–"

He looked at Carter, who was frowning at the screen thoughtfully. "You got any of that?"

"I think so," she murmured, taking a sip of her drink. "Apparently Earth's short-range sensors and satellite probes have been affected by a kind of geomagnetic or electromagnetic disturbances. The consequences of which especially on bulk power systems can be severe. God, that could probably mean – "

"Carter?" Jack interjected softly, "there are some of us here who, you know…don't really know…" he trailed off, the implications clear.

She sighed. "Geomagnetic disturbances – maybe you've heard of them as geomagnetic storms – are significant and abnormal fluctuations in the magnetic field near the surface of the Earth caused by space weather. Solar flares occurring in active regions around sunspots, powered by the sudden release of magnetic energy stored in the corona tend to be responsible for causing these disturbances. When these reach the Earth's surface, they are called geomagnetically-induced currents. These would send surges through human-built infrastructure like electrical power transmission grids, undersea communication cables, telephone and computer networks. It's probably what you're seeing now. The resulting outage in parts of the Northern hemisphere."

"So that's the official thing they're feeding us."

Her eyes whipped to his. "You think it's a cover-up?"

He shrugged. "After learning about the Stargate program, I figured anything's possible."

"If only I could just go through NASA's documentation on this," she huffed in frustration. "I feel like an ignorant civilian who ca-"

A knock on the front door. The knob turned and Payner stepped in to their surprise.

"I come bearing gifts," he said meaningfully, and strode straight into the kitchen to put down a large pizza. "Rosie's handiwork. For dinner. For what it's worth, I think you guys should lie low."

"Stating the obvious, Col," Jack drawled.

Payner waved at them to stay in their seats and took the single couch opposite them. He pointed at the screen and exhaled noisily. "Strange news, ain't it? Never did quite have these things back in the day."

They nodded mutely.

"Jack, Samantha, there's something you should know," Payner said, his tone turning low. "My sources are pretty tight-lipped on your names. They only have the official run-down on Vandenburg. He's a highly-decorated general, has impressive field experience, fought in 'Nam, then worked for an extended amount of time in Area 51, including being deputy head of defence and strategy in the Pentagon. What's unusual about it is the length of time he spent there."

For a moment, they just looked at each other.

"Vandenburg in Area 51?" Jack asked in disbelief. "As far as I've known, he was only in charge of defence and strategy."

"Maybe it's a cross-posting, or maybe he holds a separate portfolio that is not known to many people," Carter suggested.

"How long has he been at Area 51?" Jack asked.

"Fifteen years."

"Fifteen! But that's impossible –" Carter objected. "Military reassignments happen every few years. Not only that, it affects promotion opportunities –"

"There's obviously something there that's keeping him," Payner pointed out. "But there's nothing more I can give you on him. Scrubbed clean. My guy can dig, but his clearance isn't the highest, well, not as high as I'd like anyway. West, however, is a different story. He'd been in two corruption probes, once in 1985 and another, in 1990. Blew over quickly, apparently the case against him didn't stand. Found him clean as a whistle after the last, extended court hearing."

Carter had leaned forward, her arms folded tightly in her lap. "What was he up for?

"Fraud. On both counts. Nothing came out of the investigation, so he carried on as usual. Dropped off the radar since."

She sat back stiffly and nodded once. "Thanks, Col."

"Any word on Vandenburg's sidekicks?" Jack pressed.

Payner shook his head. "I didn't ask. Sniffing names like Vandenburg was enough to raise several hackles."

"No, it's alright. Not your job."

"I don't know what the hell you people have gotten yourselves into and I don't wanna know," Payner warned. "But think very, very carefully before you act." He paused, deliberating his next words. "There is someone who could help you. At least when it comes to Area 51. But it might be a long shot. Mention my name and she'll do whatever you ask."

"We'll take anything, Col."

"I know someone, but he lives in Kansas City. Seven hours drive if you're up to it."

Jack turned to Carter, but already found her looking at him.

"Might be worth a shot," she said aloud.

"But he's been out of touch for a while," Payner cut in mildly, hesitating. "And, look, I didn't want to say this, but well…there's another person you could look up. Helped in the investigation for my son, just like you did," he continued, missing Jack's look of surprise. "Also in the CIA, still active. Name's Agent Kerry Johnson. Has her fingers in many pies. If you ask me, Johnson's your girl."

He held out a well-worn piece of paper that looked as though he had crushed it repeatedly. Jack reached out and took it carefully from Payner's hand and the quick intake of breath that Jack took didn't escape Sam's notice.

"Washington D.C," he breathed quietly.

Payner huffed and mistook O'Neill's quiet contemplation as distaste for the distance that needed to be covered. "Most active CIA agents operate there. You'll get there. Eventually."

Sam looked at O'Neill speculatively, then turned to Payner, trying for reassurance. "Col, we'll do our best to be careful."

"Yeah," Payner said, gesturing to the front. "I brought your car around. Also tanked her up for you."

"Thanks again. And technically, not ours."

Payner didn't look too pleased with Jack volunteering that piece of information. "Didn't I just say I really don't wanna know?" He stood up and regarded them both steadily. "I'll be back tomorrow with more food and whatever you'll need. Assuming you're still here."

He didn't wait for a reply and let himself out.

"O'Neill."

He turned to her irritably. "The name's Jack by the way. I'm not your superior, not your boss, nothing, so quit acting like it."

She rolled her eyes but chose not to respond to his annoyed reply. "We have two options. Check out the contact in Kansas, or head to Des Moines en route to Washington D.C.. Six- to seven-hour drive each way."

It got her a raised eyebrow and a curious look. "Des Moines?"

"Some friends I'd like to visit. So then, north or south?"

Jack ran through a mental checklist. One, he could follow Payner's lead; his sources have been tried, tested and reliable. For most part. Until he ran into an insurmountable roadblock like he did with the Libyan case and Kenneth Payner. Two, they went to her contacts. Only she knew about the reliability of her sources. Three, they went to both, and waste a bit more time and money on the road. But where exactly, was their end point? They were heading east only because his own contacts lived on the other side of the North American continent.

As for Kerry Johnson, he hesitated. She was no stranger but it had been years since they had last seen each other and –

"What about D.C?" Carter was asking him.

He made a snap decision. "We could do that too. But it'll have to wait as we make our stops slowly."

"So what now?" She asked curiously.

"How trustworthy are your sources?"

"Pretty good. But how much they can really get is the unpredictable bit."

"Yeah, that's always the thing, isn't it?" He grimaced at the thought of chasing down dead ends.

"Whatever it is, at least we've got some leads now."

* * *

**Area 51, Underground Facility  
South Nevada  
18 September 1995**

He paced the confined spaces of the room as he waited for the call, picking it up after the first shrill ring, answering merely in grunts of affirmation and approval as his caller spoke.

Footfalls sounded in the corridor and entered the room that he was in. He waved his visitor in and gestured to the chair, then quickly ended his call without pleasantries.

"I don't like getting innocent civilians involved in this," his visitor announced curtly. "The last thing we need is an investigation by the JAGs and the civilian police."

"Has gotta be done, Vandenburg," he replied amicably. "It's what _this_ is all about. This is what _we're_ about."

"Granted, Senator, but –"

He turned suddenly and rounded on the other man fiercely. "I warned you that Jack O'Neill was a wild card. Now he's screwed this damn thing up!" Pleased to see the protest dying in the other man's throat, he continued in a softer voice, "We took that chance on O'Neill. Just you recommended. Your best black-ops soldier. And now Carter's reportedly with him, so my sources say. And they both know too much. Join the dots, General."

"We agreed from the start that we were going to fly under the radar, William," Vandenburg spat. "No alerting the local cops, no harm to the civilians."

"Collateral damage," Curtis responded easily. "For god's sake, Vandenburg. You've seen the evidence of what we've been trying to deny. The damn press is all over the statement that we've fed the meteorology department. Major Samantha Carter's got valuable information that can undo all this hard work in seconds. And if O'Neill's really with her, he'll do anything to disappear along with her. And trust me when I say he'll do it quite easily. We need to flush them out before the trail gets too cold."

Vandenburg nodded stiffly. "Doesn't mean I have to like it."

"No one's asking you to."

* * *

**Lexington, Nebraska  
18 September 1995**

The rain never came. The smell of ozone in the air dissipated after the clouds dispersed, leaving a clear night blanketed with stars.

Sam's fretful sleep was interrupted by the sound of a distant roar. Puzzled, she rolled out of the guest bed and ambled to the window, peering out the back lawn only to see the silvery sheen of starlight on the grass enveloped in a foggy haze lit by a strange orange glow. Gradually, she became aware of the smell of charred leaves and twigs reaching her nostrils.

Her bedroom door burst open and O'Neill rushed in, already dressed. "Crop fire. Gotta go."

She wasted no time. She packed what she could, ignoring her shabby state of dress and ran out of the guest ranch with him.

The roar of the flames was deafening when they emerged at the front porch. In mute fascination they froze as the heat enveloped them, watching the fire mercilessly consume everything in its path. Payner's sprawling corn fields was disappearing an acre a minute under an invading force of cackling flames which had crossed the crop line that joined this property to his.

Sam sure as hell wasn't going to wait for the flames to lick her feet before she moved.

"O'Neill, come on!" She yelled and grabbed his arm, turning to run for the car.

They ran to the side of the ranch, feeling the blistering heat on their backs. She threw her stuff roughly on the backseat and climbed in as O'Neill revved the engine and reversed out into the dirt track.

"Col and Rosie. We need to check on them," he said grimly.

"Yeah, I know," she agreed breathlessly.

O'Neill kept looking into the rear-view mirror as he drove, watching as the fire crept steadily up the road. He took the turns more quickly than the car could handle, nearly tipping them over in his haste to escape the heat and the flames.

Finally, the last stretch of the journey that would bring them down the road to Payner's place.

He accelerated, then screeched to a stop when a burning house came into view.

"Oh my god," Sam breathed in horror. Without thinking, she had flung the car door open and was now running towards Payner's once-beautiful farmhouse. The first storey was engulfed in angry orange flames but the fire was barely touching the second storey where the family bedrooms must be located.

There was no time to lose.

Before O'Neill had a chance to say anything, Sam had rushed into the burning building, choking on the heavy fumes that clogged her lungs when she stepped into the destroyed living area. She stumbled around blindly for a second, forcing from memory the layout of the house as she remembered as the heat from the fire singed her bare shoulders and arms.

The memory surfaced.

The stairs! Down the passageway, hidden in the corner to the right. She took them two at a time, determined to reach the Payners. Not for a moment had she considered her way back out, or how she could bring them both down the stairs and out alive. Dimly, through the falling beams and the sharp crackles, she thought she heard O'Neill's angry shouts.

She looked up at the ceiling. The flames were creeping up the second floor.

She kicked the first bedroom door open, and then the adjacent one. Then she saw them.

Two figures locked in an embrace, a grotesque parody of eternal love immortalised. Their nightclothes had been burnt in several places, suggesting that they had tried to escape, and found that they could not. Retreating to the bedroom, they must have waited for the end to come as they choked to death on the thick smoke. The windows had been smashed, but neither of them could climb down any more safely than they could have survived a fire.

God, she was too late.

Sam didn't know how long she stood there, staring at them. But it couldn't have been more than a few seconds when her sense of preservation kicked in. Back down the stairs, a step at a time, not wanting the fragile, burnt wood to give way beneath her weight. The ball of her foot touched the wood almost timidly, followed by her heel. One after another until she was past half the flight of stairs.

Her next step caused the next beam to buckle and collapse beneath her feet.

With nothing to hold onto, she crashed through the remainder of the disintegrating steps, uselessly scrabbling for the banister that had splintered and fallen apart like the rest of the wood. Landing hard on her side, the sharp edges of the wood fragments pierced her bare arms and she yelled in pain, coughing hard when a burst of wood dust and ashes exploded in her face. A sharp pain shot through her foot when she tried to lift it.

The fire was raging out of control. She couldn't walk. Just as she thought there was no way out, a hand clamped around her arm and hauled her to her feet.

She looked up and saw that it was O'Neill, his face stony with resolve, betraying not an inch of anxiety.

He kicked off the debris around her, ignoring her wince of pain. She looked up into his flinty eyes, then felt the floor tilt as she was swung over his shoulder in a fireman's carry.

They burst through the front door, but he continued running until they hit a spot where the fire had not yet ravaged. Then he dropped her unceremoniously to the hard ground, panting hard from the recent exertion and the smoke inhalation.

The blessed, cold night air filled her nose.

Sam took huge gulps of it, trying to regain her balance and her composure, still coughing violently.

But O'Neill wasn't done. He pulled her upwards again and grabbed her shoulders, unknowingly pressing the splinters deeper into her skin.

"Goddammit, Carter! What the fuck were you thinking?" He shook her hard as he shouted into her blackened face that was streaked with tears. "Are you fucking crazy? Why the hell did you do something like that? What kind of game do you think –" He trailed off in anger and relief, swiping his hand over his face that was also blackened with grime and soot.

She winced again. And wondered if she looked as bad as she felt. A quick glance down told her that it was probably the case. Her once-white night singlet was torn in several places and smudged black with soot. Her pyjama bottoms were in the same state and she was sure the fire had most likely singed a couple of inches off her hair. Her ankle was either sprained or broken. The angry welts forming on the sensitive skin near her shoulder blades were likely to get infected if she didn't clean them out thoroughly.

His anger didn't quite register. Only the charred bodies that lay in a room engulfed by flames. Overwhelming regret was all she knew.

"Jack, please," she murmured helplessly, her eyes wandering to the burning ranch's broken bedroom windows.

Robbed of strength, all she could do was to put her arms around him and hold on when her legs refused to support her any longer.

Against his own better sense, he hesitated a fraction of a second, then pulled her into his arms tightly.

"You could have been killed, Carter." His voice was low and serious, whispering into her ear, his fingers threading through her dirty blond hair.

"I know," she said hoarsely, a hitch in her voice. She pushed her unruly hair off her forehead carelessly and swiped the tears off her face. "But I didn't want anybody to die because of me."

Her whispered confession caused him to shut his eyes in regret. He tightened his arms around her. "Come on," he said quietly. "Time to go."

Taking her hand, he gently helped her hobble into the car and drove down the road that would lead them to the interstate highway. He pulled a water bottle out of his duffel and handed it to her.

Sam sipped the water gratefully, turning to look at him. "Thank you. For doing this."

She had not managed to save Colin and Rosie Payner. But he had helped save hers. Surely that had to count for something? He debated his next words and found that he didn't know how to respond.

A few minutes passed in silence. She was now looking out of the front window pensively and he would give a million dollars to know her thoughts.

"Yeah," he finally nodded in acknowledgement, briefly placing his hand over hers. "Let's get you cleaned up."


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 13**

**Lexington, Nebraska  
19 September 1995 **

Jack followed the interstate as much as he could for about an hour, giving the woman in the passenger seat a concerned glance. The nearest town wasn't far away, but he was wary of going too near to civilisation, even though Lexington appeared to be small enough a town.

"Where're you heading?" Carter asked. She dug through Frasier's medical kit, retrieved a pair of long tweezers and carefully began to pick out the splinters in dim light of the car's front ceiling lights. Ever so often she hissed when the sharp edge encountered more tender flesh, muttering profanities under her breath that would have – on an ordinary day – gotten him snickering at the extensive range of her colourful vocabulary.

"Just out of the area."

She stopped long enough to see a cluster of building up ahead. "Hey, look. Pull up there."

He slowed to stop beside its gate, squinting at its fenced perimeter that had holes liberally cut in them. Parts of the building walls appeared to have suffered the whims of some graffiti artists. Clearly, the sign 'No Trespassing' had been disregarded many times over. "Thinking of stopping here?"

She shrugged. "Only for a couple hours. Just to get cleaned up, and look sort of presentable by the time we head to some place where people will actually see us."

"Looks like an abandoned military barrack, or some old training facility. Garrison town?"

"Who knows? It's …" she leaned over to looked at the car's digital clock. "0447. This is our best bet for the rest of the night."

He agreed. "Or the morning. Yeah, why not?"

The buildings turned out to be storage facilities that some agricultural company had most likely abandoned a few years ago. The cavernous space dwarfed them as they walked into the high-ceilinged warehouse that was so reminiscent of the military barracks in basic training.

He walked its interior, looking for anything – any sort of supplies at all – that might help them.

Carter turned to the cobweb-covered electrical box near the building's main entrance and swept the gossamer threads away. She opened it and started fiddling with some switches, supporting all her weight on the uninjured foot as she worked.

All of a sudden, the lamps hummed on, revealing the sheer size of the storehouse. Light brown paint peeled off from its sides, held in place by the cloud of cobwebs that clung to the upper parts of the walls and ceiling.

It was musty and dirty. Disused. But it was perfect.

Jack turned back just to catch Carter's slight grin. He walked up next to her and they slid down next to each other, leaning on the wall.

"Got them all out?" He nodded to the pinprick scratches from where she must have removed the splinters.

He eyed the angry welts that marred her pale skin, then took the medi pack from her, fishing out the antiseptic lotion and the gauze. The welts had deepened the gash where bullet graze was and were making the old wound bleed afresh.

"That's going to scar."

"Don't I know it," she said through gritted teeth, saturating the wounds with several disposable packs of saline, washing out the debris as much as she could.

"Turn and face me," he ordered softly, then shifted her himself gently when he saw her grimace at the slightest movement.

He dabbed some iodine on each scratch, and then poured a bit more over the welt and the bullet graze. His actions were meticulous but gentle and she felt herself relaxing. She kept silent throughout, clenching her teeth as the antiseptic lotion seared each open cut.

That was when he realised just how shredded her once-pristine tank top was; it was torn in places that left nothing to the imagination. Quickly averting his eyes, he shrugged out of his jacket and cursed himself for not noticing her sorry state of dress earlier. But it seemed that she had forgotten about it herself.

"Here, take this," he hurriedly pulled his jacket over her shoulders and helped her arms into the sleeves. "I…er…don't think you'd like to change?"

She glanced down and reddened immediately, pulling it tight around her middle. "Yeah, it's better if I did," she acknowledged awkwardly, reaching for the bag that held her spare change of clothing.

To her relief, he wasn't looking at her as he dug through the medi kit. "Might have to splint your ankle," he said nonchalantly, waving a roll of bandages, his back to her. "Janet's given us some bandages and it's probably not stiff enough, but it'll have to do."

He was giving her space and privacy to change, as much as this place allowed.

Sam struggled quickly into a clean T-shirt but had some trouble pulling on her sweats. Gritting her teeth, she tugged the pants up, a harsh sound escaping her lips as her sore ankle got in the way.

"Need help?" His voice floated to her.

"No! No, I'm just about done," she announced breathlessly, slowly stretching her leg out. He turned and shifted, sitting across her and placed her leg gently in his lap, gently touching the aching part.

"Carter, I'm going to try to do this slowly, but it might hurt in the process," he warned.

Sam nodded and watched him work. His unbelievably gentle touch as he wound the bandages around her ankle was surprising for a hardened military man, and she found herself soothed by his ministrations.

By the time she was changed and bandaged up, it became clear to her that he wasn't going to say a word about what had happened at the ranch. She was going to have to talk first. Inwardly sighing, she tentatively ventured, "I'm sorry about Col and Rosie."

He fixed his eyes on her impossibly blue gaze, bright with unshed tears. She was the first to look away.

"Why did you do it?" He asked quietly, keeping the lotion and the spare gauze, after he applied some on his own arms.

"I thought that if there had been any chance…any chance at all, I should try it," she said tiredly, then took a deep breath. "I thought about it. There must have been an accelerant in the fields and possibly in their house. I knew it the moment I saw how mu–"

"Samantha," he cut in, reaching out to smooth a stray strand of hair over her ear. "It's OK. It's over."

The unexpected gentleness of his fingers brushing across her ear caused her to stutter to a stop. From the moment he'd barged into her house guns blazing three days ago, his sudden, constant presence in her life had unhinged her. Having claimed that she had been his intended target then decided against it, he'd near-ordered her to trust him and then proved himself – thus far – to be as he had promised to be. She had no doubts that he was a capable, resourceful ally but much to her amazement, he'd made no demands of her other than to ask for her trust.

Thus far.

And now she was fearing something else entirely. Her own involuntary reactions to him. But it was natural, wasn't it? It hadn't escaped her notice that the former black-ops Colonel was an extremely handsome man despite that controlled sternness; his athletically fit physique was incredibly toned for his slightly lanky frame, his mystery of his military past chiselled into his lean, tanned face.

He was sitting close, and the proximity of their bodies registered like it hadn't before.

As quickly as it came, that stray, inappropriate thought dissipated into the furthest reaches of her mind, replaced by an assault of blinding guilt and horror that she felt when she'd saw the burning Nebraskan farmhouse.

It was back again, that outraged helplessness, the revulsion and the memory of the pain of having failed to save a life given up to the flames.

A sob escaped her lips which she immediately tried to stifle. Then it was his arm that she felt come around her shoulder. He felt her resistance for a second, fighting the fear and memories as she stiffened away from him. But it was only for a moment. Then, as though reliving a part of her life still unbeknownst to him, she slumped, overwhelmed and shaking against him, clamping her hand over her mouth as tears spilled uncontrollably from her eyes.

He didn't say a word, simply fighting through the tempest of the roiling emotions with her, offering whatever comfort he could in return.

It was a long time before words came.

"Is it?" She took a deep breath, clearing her wayward thoughts, answering the question that he'd asked many, long moments ago. "I think we've just barely started."

"I wasn't talking about that."

She said nothing in response. He shifted until he leaned against the wall next to her.

"What happened to Col couldn't have been the result of a crop fire," he answered finally, looking at her sideways, trying to gauge her reaction. "But I think you know that already."

"And made to look like an accident. It's obvious that they're on our trail," she said flatly. "I thought we shook them off when we ditched your rental car."

"Whoever's doing this has got unlimited resources, unlimited funds. We're probably going to need another form of transport and a route to the next contact using different roads."

Carter made a non-committal sound.

"So, what is it about fire that makes you do stupid things?" He hazarded a guess.

Her hesitation was obvious; her eyes had dropped to the ground and her brow was furrowed in a fierce frown.

So this was bigger than he thought. Certain now that her uncharacteristic, emotional bout of tears had less to do with what really happened at Colin's farmhouse, Jack backpedalled, stumbling on his way. "Hey, you know…it's really none of my business so you can tell me to fuc-"

"He was my second date in college," she interrupted. "It went well at first. Then…in my final year, we saw each other lesser than usual because of the amount of hours of lab work." A soft sigh escaped her lips. Her sentences were short and clipped as the ghastly memory washed over her. "He thought I was seeing someone else. I barely had time for our dinners, or our weekend walks in the park…so he…did things to himself."

He stared at her mesmerised, not daring to stop her, both thrilled and terrified that she had so willingly taken the bait he'd thoughtlessly put out. Somewhere, somehow, Carter had ceased being an assignment, a case, a service number in the military's database. As she revealed piecemeal portions of her life outside the military, he found that he really wanted to get to know her as a person, a woman who lay behind the target. He wouldn't want to settle for anything less.

Carter's speech had rolled to a halt. She turned her glassy eyes up to his. His encouraging gaze didn't waver.

"Threatened to hurt himself if I continued to see other people," she continued bravely, sucking in a deep breath. "Then one day, I caught him holding a knife to his wrist. God, I should have walked away. But I didn't – I _couldn't_. I stupidly thought that if I walked, he'd really do something to hurt himself and I'll be guilty for his actions," she bit out scathingly, "Fucking lot of good that did. He self-immolated in my apartment when he saw me walking with a lab assistant in the college café earlier in the day. I couldn't stop him. He had poured petrol over himself and –"

Fuck. He lifted his hand off her shoulder and raked both hands through his hair roughly. He wasn't sure if he wanted to hear more.

"Carter…"

"Well, you can guess what happened after that," she finished sombrely. "It made regional news. My dad found out. The daughter of a General in the USAF. Hanging out with psychos who went for the extreme. Who had mental problems, had issues…you name it, he's got it. My dad was furious. Beyond furious. With everything. With my grades plunging, with my choice of boyfriend."

Jack fought the rising tide of anger on her behalf. Hadn't her father recognised the aching loneliness of a motherless teenager? Or was he so committed to duty and discipline that he'd forgotten what it was like to foster a relationship with his children? Instead, had her dad alienated the only relationships that could have saved all of them? Didn't he care that they were – emotionally, if not physically – as good as gone?

He would have given everything to get Charlie back. The gulf that the elder Carter had helped enlarge between him and his children made it all that more unforgivable.

It took him a second to realise that she was still speaking.

"Dad transferred me to another college," she smiled ironically. "And because he was worried that I'd do something stupid, he made sure that the guidance counsellor was on my case for the remainder of my degree. First thing I was told in my counselling sessions was that I had a thing for the lunatic fringe, a dangerous obsession with mad men. You know, she's probably right."

There was more lingering bitterness than anger in her words, something he thought he could understand.

"God." Jack tiredly rubbed a hand over his face. He didn't know what to say to the next-most screwed-up relationship he knew outside his own failed marriage. The emotional manipulation that she'd gone through…the shame and guilt that must have plagued her…he shuddered to think of how she'd reacted when that boy had set himself alight. And if he had died….

"Did he die?" He asked abruptly.

She looked startled at his brusque question, then nodded hesitantly in response. "Severe third degree burns. They couldn't save him. I swore then," she added softly, "that no one was going to die because of me."

"Fuck." This time he didn't bother to silence the expletive. It explained why she'd reacted the way she did when Col's house was burning, why she's kept going even when she already knew of the probability of only recovering charred bodies.

"Well, now you know," she said wanly.

He sat up suddenly, wanting to alleviate the pain of the memory for which he now felt responsible. "Col and Rosie died because of _them_, Carter. Whoever those bastards are," he couldn't help but point out. "Not you."

"We were staying with them when it happened. I'm part of the cause. I should have guessed that this could happen!"

"No, it's not, Carter," he said firmly. "Quit blaming yourself. And trust me on this one. There was no way you could have known."

Her only reply was an unhappy look and a proffered yawn that she'd tried too late to suppress. He hadn't come out of the fire unscathed too, she realised, having just seen the singed flesh on his arms.

"You're hurt too," she said aloud, then tried to scrabble for the kit. "You'll need –"

"Nothing that won't go away," he replied dismissively. "I've used some salve. Now get comfortable." He stretched his long legs out and slouched a bit more against the wall. "C'mere."

She did the same and drew closer slowly, tentatively leaning her head on his shoulder. He wound his arm around her again and buried his nose in her hair, taking comfort in that unusual lemon-vanilla fragrance that he'd come to associate with her.

They stayed that way until the sun was high in the sky.

* * *

Despite having cleaned their faces and their arms as best as they could, Jack knew they looked like they had been put through a ringer when they presented themselves at the reception of a low-key motel along the road that led northwards, away from Lexington.

Luckily, their only company was one blond student receptionist too engrossed in _Star Trek: The Next Generation _reruns on a tiny TV to even really look at them when he handed them their room key and held his hand out for the rent money.

"Fond memories," he scoffed dryly as she twisted the key in the lock easily and pushed the door open.

What he saw inside was unsurprising. Narrow twin beds. A small stained bathroom with a slow, leaking faucet. The same kind of tacky, run-down décor that plagued many motels in the country.

He switched on the small TV next to the coffee table. CNN's familiar logo appeared on screen. He flicked another button.

The BBC.

And flicked another.

ABC News.

A repetitive reportage of the electricity outages and the science behind solar flares.

"I'm thinking that we should head to Des Moines," Sam began. "Not that I trust my friends about Col's informant, but if they've gotten to him, then it's possible that his military contacts might also be under surveillance."

"Got a point, Carter," he acknowledged. "But we'll stay low, find some other secluded place until your ankle's better."

"But in the meantime, we could make our way northwards, can't we?"

"That's the plan."

* * *

CNN was still playing in the background when Jack emerged from the bathroom towelling his wet hair. He was amused but not shocked to see her lying on her stomach on one of the beds, bent over his electronic equipment, having taken apart his laptop and the non-standard issue parts.

She heard his approach, paused in her study and grinned. "Didn't know the military gave these expensive gadgets to you to play with."

He shrugged. "Gets the work done. Especially when surveillance is needed. So," he asked casually, "Whatcha' doing?"

"Just looking at the non-standard make of your computer," she said wryly. "I promise it'll still function when I put it back together."

"Doesn't worry me too much," he said. Days of surveillance in the past few weeks had taught him how to read basic-Carter facial expressions. She hadn't quite mastered a classic poker face, and her unguarded reactions that surfaced constantly reminded him of the emotional chasm that still separated them. "But that's not exactly why you're doing this, right?"

Sam bit her lip in hesitation. "Actually, using your program set-up and its several encryption systems, I might be able to access several military bases' networks. It probably wouldn't go far though."

He motioned impatiently for her to get to the point.

"I was thinking of using my dad's account to get in," she said, clearly troubled by what she was suggesting.

He was looking at her inscrutably. "Jacob Carter's clearance isn't as high as yours."

He was right, she thought. Jacob Carter's portfolio as deputy commander of the Air Force Security Assistance Centre at Wright-Patterson was essentially handling international relations, entering into negotiation with allied forces to provide defence materiel and services. His level of clearance wouldn't have been sufficiently high for top-secret project access.

Was O'Neill, then, giving her a way out? Or was it his way of assessing where her loyalties lay? She didn't know where he was coming from and frankly, she quite muster up the strength to care. Pushed into this impossible situation, she was more bothered by her willingness to do all it took to survive.

"My dad's the deputy chair of the Air Force Security Assistance Center, so no, he probably wouldn't have that level of clearance," she admitted. "But he might have access to additional information when it comes to your CO and West."

"Hypothetically," he started slowly, thinking of the possibilities that this particular avenue opened up to them. "Could you do that? While covering our trail?"

"Maybe," she hedged uneasily, blinking at him.

"What are you worried about?"

"Hacking my father's account for…I don't even know what this is…" she trailed off, putting her head in her hands. "I never thought that I'd ever be on the wrong side of military law. And now, I'm suggesting something that will put me in deeper trouble, if that's even possible."

He rounded the bed and sat next to her. "Look, you do this only if you know it'll help. I should probably tell you that we need all the damn info we can get, but if you're worried about this additional breach, I understand."

He'd thrown the ball in her court, now he waited to see what she would do.

In response, she hurriedly reassembled the laptop and booted it.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 14**

**Des Moines, Iowa  
****25 September 1995**

For at the past six days, O'Neill had been insisting that she rest her ankle. She had disagreed at first, wanting to make it to Des Moines as soon as they could, then later confessed that the additional rest was probably necessary when it got too painful to walk. But the sprain had gotten much better especially over the last two days and she found that her movements were almost back to normal.

The recuperation time had been much needed for the both of them, she thought; at least O'Neill's eyes were looking less shadowed and fatigued.

From Lexington, they'd gone north, then northeast, taking a zigzagging route into Iowa, stopping for a day or two at small towns like Norfolk and Spencer, before finally approaching Des Moines from the north. They avoided public contact as much as they could, spending the nights in the least-popular motels, often leaving before the dawn. They used their stash of cash prudently, buying their supplies from convenience stores and from the occasional takeout stand.

As an added security measure, they had ditched their transport at every junkyard they'd come across. She had hot-wired vehicles as he nodded his approval.

He had told her jokingly that they made a good team, despite the unusual circumstances that had pushed them together. In that light-hearted moment, she'd winked and called herself MacGyver's double. He had burst into surprised laughter, which had made her stop short at what she was doing for a few seconds.

Sam had never heard him laugh before, not in that way, not with that unrestrained, short burst of mirth that took the years from his face and added a glow in his brown eyes.

She regretted that it was hidden once more like the way the sun hid behind the clouds.

Sneaking a glance at him now, she saw that he was preoccupied with the traffic in Ankeny, looking into the rear view mirror every few seconds. He was changing lanes too frequently, his eyes darting everywhere.

A tendril of anxiety crawled up her back. Stealing a glance to the back, Sam could only make out the tail end of rush-hour traffic.

"What is it?" She asked worriedly.

"There's a green car on our six," he replied distractedly, pushing the car into a sudden burst of acceleration through a yellow light, rounding the left corner into a side street quickly.

Sam twisted as far as she could to look behind them, squinting in the bright sunlight despite the shades that covered her eyes.

A green car nipped around the right corner, in the opposite direction of where they were and accelerated on.

"Looks like no one's following us after all," she pointed out, heaving a sigh of relief.

"That looked too easy."

"If they followed us, why wait till all this time? Unless they wanted my ankle healed first," she said dryly. "I think you're seeing things that aren't there."

She had a point, he conceded grudgingly. He had been more paranoid than cautious the moment they'd left Nebraska, checking their motel several times, walking its perimeter, always going around with a cap pulled low over his eyes. Sam had not fared much better. His suspicions rubbed off her; she'd dressed in oversized jackets and sweaters, stuffing her hair under a cap that she'd made him purchase at a convenience store.

They had agreed that Colin's and Rosie Payner's deaths couldn't have been accidental. A crop fire in autumn wasn't a common occurrence in the Great Plains and the speed at which the acres had succumbed to the flames suggested that the presence of an accelerant.

The only recourse available to them was to continue to shake the trails of their pursuers, while trying to recover from their untimely injuries.

Jack knew just how much the loss of the Payners affected her. The horrifying story of her college date was proof enough that memories such as those never faded and were often accompanied by pain that still stung as fresh as the day the wound had been cut. It was the age-old story of loss, one with which he had recently become well-acquainted.

She had been rather sullen in the recovery period, talking only if he asked her something. Catherine Langford's demise had barely given Carter time to mourn, or to come to terms with the suspicious circumstances surrounding her accident. This guilt she carried because of the Payners – despite his fervent assurances that she wasn't to blame at all – had only served to increase the emotional burden.

Fleeing had become part of their lives so suddenly that it had been suffocating for her. But Carter still held up under the strain remarkably, for someone who was already convinced that she had lost everything. He'd seen men who had broken for less.

Instead, she held on. She didn't let go. She ran. With him. Not giving up on the truth, no matter how far away that was at the moment.

Admiration for Carter's resilience welled up inside him. And also grudging respect for the cool head that she'd kept during the last five minutes.

"Yeah," he grimaced, flushing slightly in embarrassment.

Then he realised that he had stopped the car completely on the small street, obstructing an outraged driver who had stopped behind him. Quickly steering to the side, he ignored the finger that was waved at him as the car behind squealed off.

He caught Carter's wry, amused look that she wiped off her face the second he caught her eye.

He narrowed his eyes. "So where to now, science babe?" And grinned when he saw her scowl.

"Let's get to a diner," she suggested. "I could go through the telephone directory. It might be best to call from a public location."

"Who are we looking for exactly?"

"Academy ex-classmates."

* * *

Ten minutes later, they had found a fairly large one that was located at the end of the main street, but not before he stopped to get the daily newspaper.

Walking into a corner where the public pay phone was, Sam saw O'Neill slide into a booth at the back and flip through the menu.

She hoped he ordered strong, black coffee. The routine cup of breakfast coffee was one of the things she missed the most, grateful for the small luxury when he'd brought her several cups as her leg and arms healed.

Turning back to the telephone stand, she pulled out the directory and turned to the letter 'N', running her fingers down the list of names as she scanned for the one she wanted.

_Newman, Gary. _

_Newman, George. _

_Newman, Geoffrey._

_Newman, Gideon. (515) 991-3158. 388 Woodlands Avenue._

Inserting a coin into the pay phone, Sam dialled the number quickly, impatiently tapping the phone book as she waited.

"Hi –" she started, only to be cut off by the beep of an answering machine. She listened to Gideon Newman's curt voice over the recording telling whoever called to leave a message. "Damn."

Frustrated, she slammed the receiver down hard. The telephone booth rattled with the force of her action.

She paged through the directory once more, flipping to the letter "E".

_Elliot, Dalton._

_Elliot, Damian._

_Elliot, David. (515) 280-4050. 303 East Boulevard. _

_Elliot, David. (515) 483-4983. 1992 Porter Avenue. _

_Elliot, David. __(515) 294-4220. 29 Scott Street._

There were too many damn David Elliots living in Des Moines that she would have liked.

Sam wound her way back to the back booth where O'Neill was sitting and seemingly absorbed in the papers, glad to see that he had ordered exactly what she'd wanted. In fact, he had gone overboard with the order. The coffee came accompanied with two plates of pancakes and waffles. She slid in next to him, and took a sip of the steaming cup that the waitress had just served, sighing softly in pleasure as the hot brew slid down her throat.

He shoved a plate piled high with pancakes at her.

She nodded her thanks and cut out a large piece. "I think I've found one," she informed him in low tones. "His name is Gideon Newman. But I got his answering machine."

"It's a work day," he pointed out. "If he keeps to a nine-to-five schedule, there's a chance we could meet him in the evening. Got the address?"

She nodded and said, "It's been a long time since we've seen each other. We've kept in contact from time to time, but…well, he's a curious guy."

He watched in growing horror as she shoved the cream on the pancakes to a corner of her plate. "Hey, give me that!" He scooped out the cream that she'd chucked aside and dumped the lot onto his own plate. Only when he was satisfied that he had taken all of it, he replied, "Not a good thing."

"Think about it. It could work for us."

"And also against us."

"Gideon knows the meaning of discretion, O'Neill."

He took a sip of his own black coffee. "We can't be taking chances."

She took a delicate bite of her pancakes. "I know. But we don't have that many options. I've used my father's military identity the past week to get to the military databases – breaking the encryption took a while, and when we got through, it wasn't as though we found out very much. At least not more than what Colin had already told you."

"It's still something," he argued. "We know that West has a dodgy record, but as far as those go, his dealings had not involved anyone else in the military. And that Vandenburg has been in Area 51 and in charge of evaluating foreign technology and engineering them in reverse."

"And that's where he spent fifteen years," she mused.

"A long time," he agreed. "So you think something's going on in there?"

She rolled her eyes and snorted. "Something's _always_ going on there. It's Area 51. Test flights are what they do, though some insist more is being done there that only a select few know about. As a result, it's a place riddled with conspiracy theories, government cover-ups and politics. Nothing new in the military. And I know the military prefers to keep it that way."

"Never would have taken you for a cynic," he said quietly, inexplicably uncomfortable with the flippant, and – perhaps – falsely casual manner in which she had spoken her derision. Somehow, Carter was too young, and too unblemished to be feeling that way. He suddenly wished that she could have remained just that bit more idealistic.

"You know, neither would I, frankly," she admitted and looked at his squarely. "There was a time when the Air Force could do no wrong in my books. But that was a long time ago. Things have changed. _I've_ changed."

"Yeah, haven't we all?" Jack muttered in response. He couldn't remember a time before the USAF. It had been and probably will be an integral part of his life and family. But he'd spent the better part of his life in service to his country and now, he didn't know if that faith in the military was misplaced.

"Gideon might be able to dig up something more specific," Carter said.

He recognised her change of subject and he gladly took her lead.

"Anyway, anyone else besides him?"

Sam huffed in irritation. "Yeah, but he's got a common name. There's got to be at least forty David Elliots in this city alone. There's no way we could call on every one of them here."

"Then your first guy might be our best bet today," he said and pushed the papers at her. "Here, look at this. Effects of apparent solar flares causing havoc across all continents."

She spared a glance at the images of the outages, then read the headlines.

**_Massive power cut affecting 38 million people across the Central Asian Plateau and Western China_**

_An apparent flare event induced the collapse of the Min-Shao electrical plant in Inner Mongolia in seconds and left 3 million people without electricity for twenty hours. The geomagnetic current flowing through the Earth found the least resistant path along the 1,150 kV ultra-high voltage power lines that run through the sparsely populated region, causing jammed satellite communications to shut down. _

_Indications of solar flare activity however, remain unclear, an incongruous consequence of an apparent cause that, at the time of writing, cannot be confirmed by visual evidence of any flares. The Des Moines Register can confirm that NASA's Solar Dynamics Observatory (SDO) has not commented on this incongruity._

_Research is ongoing to produce a radio telescope that can monitor sunspot active regions (AR) and predict the trajectory of potentially damaging debris in a flare event, which will then allow the reorientation of satellites or the early shut down of communications systems that could be in its path._

"Solar flares without visual, tangible proof…?" She wondered aloud.

"You're the scientist. You tell me."

She leant low and looked around. The diner was thankfully empty save for an elderly couple at the end of the row.

"My research team had actually discovered unusual readings in the atmosphere a few weeks ago. Spikes of energy that don't compute with the usual composition of the cosmic dust that is found in our own atmosphere. Typical sources of solar system dust come from comet dust or even asteroidal dust. Now, I'm just not too sure what it really is after reading these newspaper reports," she paused, surprised that he hadn't yet demanded that he wanted more of a straight-forward response. "In fact, I was hoping to contact NASA in order to obtain decades worth of their atmospheric recordings when all of these –" she gestured in the air helplessly, "happened and everything went wrong."

O'Neill looked sceptical. "And that's somehow related to a flare? How?"

"Solar flares are caused when magnetic activity ramps up in sunspots on the surface of the sun. When flares happen, huge quantities of matter and electromagnetic radiation, also known as the coronal mass ejection, are hurled into space that, upon impacting Earth, can cause geomagnetic storms that disrupt radio communications and power grids," she started, running through the article again. "But more importantly, you can see flares happening. They can be captured by NASA's Solar Dynamics Observatory and the public gets very quick access to these pictures as soon as the newspapers obtain the copyright," she said, frowning. "Without much visual proof of these flares, I can't help but think that I couldn't have been looking at information related to them all along.

"Maybe because there just weren't any?" O'Neill suggested tentatively.

She shook her head, her certainty growing by the second.

They were looking at Occam's razor, counting on the simplest, most obvious explanation as the right one.

"No, I think you might be right. It takes a considerable amount of electromagnetic radiation in the atmosphere to cause such large-scale power outages. And if a series of flares didn't cause it, then what did? And what are the atmosphere reactive remnants that don't seem to be part of the interplanetary residue that seem to be present?"

"Carter, don't you think that…," he started, grimacing at what he was going to say.

"That what?"

"That things seem so coincidental?"

"What do you mean?"

"Look, I'm the last person to believe conspiracy theories, but don't you think that everything is happening at the same time? You made some…discoveries. I was sent to stop you, or rather, to stop those discoveries from being…used," he paused and mimicked her earlier action, looking around only to see the same elderly couple huddled in the corner. "Then the sky goes berserk, things happen around the world, we're being hunted – it's all too much of a coincidence, don't you think?

She thought for a moment and took a surreptitious glance around. "It never hurts to consider all possibilities. The presence of the…device has made me believe that there's more out there than just Earth's existence. And if what you've said had some truth in them…if these events are related in any way, then we're onto something very big that they're hiding."

He nodded and finished the last of his coffee and pancakes. "Let's go."

When they left the diner, it became clear that there wasn't too much they could do in town – not when they were lying low as possible.

There was nothing to do but wait.

* * *

**Des Moines, Iowa  
25 September 1995**

They had not been parked a couple of blocks outside Newman's house for very long before they saw a portly man walk up his porch and unlock the door.

Apparently, he was coming home for lunch, before leaving for the base again.

"That's him," she pointed out. "I'll go and speak to him."

Without waiting for O'Neill's reply, Sam got out of the car and headed down the street, and through Gideon Newman's sparsely decorated front lawn. She sneaked a quick glance back at the car only to see O'Neill casually open the newspaper that he had bought from a side stall, looking like he was nonchalantly waiting for someone in the neighbourhood.

A quick knock on the front door brought the sound of running footsteps. The door creaked open and Sam saw his head peek around.

"Gideon?" She greeted hesitantly, wondering if he would even remember her. It had after all, been nearly close to a decade since they'd studied together, and nearly five years since she last saw him at a class reunion dinner. Even then, they'd only exchanged cursory greetings, made small talk about their various assignments and asked about each other's families.

The door opened fully to reveal a man with a high forehead, a receding hairline and a pinched expression on his face, still dressed in his uniform. That was what she remembered of Gideon. The man who stood in front of her hadn't changed in years, at least in the looks department.

"How...what…Samantha? Samantha Carter?" he stuttered, stunned at his visitor. A tentative smile split Newman's features, making him look younger than he did.

"Hi," she breathed in relief. "I'm so sorry for turning up at your door like that, Gideon. But I need your help."

Newman glanced behind him nervously before beckoning her in, leading her to the corner near the front door.

He'd not offered her a place to sit, nor any rudimentary comments to fill the sudden, tense silence.

Skipping the pleasantries.

She took the hint; she wasn't welcome here, nor could she really blame him for his frosty behaviour. Turning up at his doorstep after a period of radio silence wasn't the best way to rekindle any sort of friendship. Not that she had any close, real ones in years since her days at the academy…since…Catherine.

"So, why are you here, Samantha?" Newman asked, crossing his arms.

"Gideon, it's complicated," she started, wondering how it would sound like if she admitted that she was a fugitive. "I need your help, and firstly, I need you to not ask any questions. The less you know, the better it will be for you."

He looked at her suspiciously, as though contemplating his next words. "I get the feeling that you're asking for something difficult to get," he concluded in disbelief. "You were the ever-resourceful student back then, Sam."

"You might say that," she agreed.

"So what is it?"

"I need information about General Winston Orville West and General Peter Vandenburg. And anything else you know about them, or the people they work with," Sam told him. "You're the only one I know who has partial access to this sort of information."

Newman sighed. "Samantha."

"Gideon, please."

"Samantha," he said again, glancing up the stairwell for a few seconds. "I have a family. A wife and two children. My third one's on the way. They're upstairs and I don't want them to hear anything."

"Look, Gideon, I wouldn't have come to you if it hadn't –"

He held up a hand and looked at her shrewdly. "I don't know what it is that made you find me after all those years. But you were the smart one, I'd give you that. You came to me, probably knowing that I work in the systems security branch for the military."

"Yes," she admitted freely. "Yes I did. For this purpose."

"I can't get into the database without authorisation. Digging around is dangerous business and you know it."

She frowned and said, "So you won't do this?"

My family's safety is at stake here," Newman continued in low tones. "If what you're asking for is something sensitive, then guess who will deal with the fallout?"

"What exactly are you asking?"

He sighed but his stance did not falter. "The information is not for free, Sam. What I'm asking is, what's in it for me?"

"What exactly do you want?"

"There's a price for what you're asking, Sam. If we ever get caught, we'll need resources of our own to settle in some other city or even country if I get into trouble for it.

In hindsight, she shouldn't have been too surprised. Newman was an acquaintance, not a friend. And she had only known him as such – an albeit-friendly one who seemed eager to please – all those years ago. Coming here in the blind hope that he might bend over for an ex-classmate now seemed to be the action of an incredibly naïve debutante. But perhaps in her desperation to contribute to their attempts to clear their names, she had developed too great an expectation of their friends' charity. It was a sobering, chastising realisation that made her feel as though the clock had turned back a decade to when she was still the fresh-faced, and inexperienced cadet who still desired to think the best of everyone. In some ways, she thought regretfully, that hadn't changed.

Newman expected something in return that would guarantee the safety of his family in exchange for information that might or might not be useful, and while she understood his worry, the money that she and O'Neill had was sorely needed for their own supplies.

Sam sighed in frustration. This unexpected…roadblock had left her grasping at straws. "Gideon, I can't afford this now."

He shrugged apologetically; his tight jaw belied his own anxiety. "Then I'm sorry too."

* * *

As odds went, it sucked big time. What Sam had not expected was Gideon's calculative edge that had frankly, thrown a curveball their way.

As she made her way outside, she saw O'Neill leaning against the car door as he waited.

She gave him a minute shake of her head and saw his eyes harden. He nodded once in response and signalled that they should not spend a minute longer where they weren't wanted.

She climbed into the car and watched him accelerate out of the neighbourhood.

"No luck then?" O'Neill asked lightly, his fingers tapping the steering wheel to a rhythm that only he could hear.

"He was demanding half a million dollars in exchange for the information he was going to mine," she informed him quietly. "He had a family to take care of, so that amount of money was essential if he got caught for it. We don't have that sort of money to spare."

"Your guy's good," he replied without glancing her way, concentrating on the road ahead.

"Look," Sam replied in frustration. "It might have been a long shot but that at least gave us some direction for a while. I sure as hell didn't expect him to make such demands."

"Half a million?" He whistled softly. "Some friend he is, profiting from another friend's distress."

"To be fair, he's an ex-classmate. We weren't exactly best friends in the Academy," she admitted ruefully. "I'd go to David Elliot now, but we've got just too many of them here. Unless you're willing to -?"

"Not exactly," he grimaced. "We'll be wasting time doing that sort of search. If you could find some way to narrow it down, I'd go straight to someone else who will put us up for a while."

"Where?" And a bit more hesitantly, she asked, "And who?"

He ignored her second question for now. "The east coast. Virginia."

"Langley?" She hazarded a guess.

"No. Roanoke. Just a family friend who will help," he paused, hesitating. "After that, we'll look up Kerry Johnson."

Sam looked at the car's digital clock that had stopped functioning. It now registered permanently at 0258. "We could be chasing shadows again."

"Maybe. Maybe not," he began slowly. "It's a tough road, Carter, I warned you when we started this."

"Yeah, I know."

It was a few minutes before he spoke again. "Regrets?" He asked mildly.

She knew exactly what he was asking and snorted. "I'd be dead if you didn't show up. I'm still trying to come to terms with that."

Jack stopped at a red light and looked her over, seeing her stubbornly-set jaw and the steely gaze that she shot back at him. Not for the first time and despite their dire situation, a wave of admiration for the rogue Air Force Captain washed over him. When he'd set out with Carter over a week ago, her resourcefulness and foolhardiness had both impressed and exasperated him when she had proved to be more than a pretty face.

He'd learnt her habits and her way of thinking, learnt to recognise several classic Carter expressions that told him exactly what she was thinking. In many ways, she was an open book that he thought he'd read quite easily. But Carter was also so damn beautiful that he felt his breath was punched out of him each time she looked him square in the face or when – heaven forbid – she smiled at him.

And that was cause enough for him start panicking.


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 15**

**Roanoke, Virginia  
29 September 1995 **

Driving back to the east coast was like coming full circle, Jack thought, as he took the interstate that would lead him into Roanoke. Only this time, he was returning with his target alive and well next to him.

Once again, they had taken a circuitous route that skirted the major cities, brought them south into Springfield, and then northwards again to Fort Wayne. Steering clear of Chicago, they finally headed down south towards Columbus and then east to Virginia, travelling under the cover of night as much as they could, mostly beginning their trek when the evening rush hour started.

Ditching cars and hot-wiring various forms of transport had become second-nature; he'd watch the perimeter of the place while she got their vehicle up and running. Sometimes they spent the night in the car, sometimes they checked into a motel that was far off from any town.

Jack silently thanked Carter's skills with the computer that had enabled the use of her father's ID that allowed him to narrow down the search of his old friend. He made a turn out of the highway onto Westview Drive, took another right into Cork Street, then a left, re-entering the lit tunnel that was a two-lane road cut underground to allow traffic above to flow undisrupted.

The underground pass was surprisingly devoid of cars as traffic bustled overhead.

That didn't seem right.

Just as he made out the sliver of light that signalled the end of the tunnel, the back window exploded into a million shards of glass.

Carter yelped in shock then ducked immediately, flattening herself as much as she could down the passenger seat, barely avoiding another bullet striking the back window that shattered more glass around them.

"Hold on!" Jack yelled as he hunched as much as he could, trying to keep the speed of the vehicle, risking a glance at his wing mirrors.

A black SUV in the distance was quickly gaining on them. A hooded figure was leaning out of the passenger seat, readying the next shot.

He tried keeping his foot on the accelerator, drifting a bit to compensate for the momentary loss of control. The car shifted right, nearly skimming the tunnel walls.

Unholstering her own weapon, Carter turned in her seat, undid her belt and squeezed out several rounds from her Beretta.

The first three shots ricocheted harmlessly off the concrete wall when Jack swerved right.

She ducked again, barely avoiding the next shot issued from the SUV's passenger seat, then hit her head hard on the side of the door, reeling from the G-forces as O'Neill swerved left this time. Raising her gun, she took aim as best as she could. Her fourth shot found its place in the SUV's windscreen, barely making a dent on it.

Bullet-proof glass.

"Shit!" She swore loudly and twisted back in her seat to check the remainder of her magazine. Satisfied that there was a last shot left, she leant out again, this time aiming for the SUV's tyres. Blowing their tyres would at least slow them down and buy O'Neill some more time to get away, she reasoned.

Taking careful aim, she fired.

The loudness of the boom echoed through the tunnel as her last bullet buried itself into SUV's front tyre, but not before an answering shot took out their own car's steering ability.

She registered the SUV's unsteady drifting and fell back heavily into the seat.

"Carter!" He barked, trying to regain control of the car as best as he could.

"What?" She yelled back, shoving a new round into her gun.

"The car's good as gone. We're going to have to jump," O'Neill instructed over the din of squealing wheels, then accelerated as much as the car could take. "Grab what you can from the back, give some bags to me. I'm speeding up to gain distance, then braking hard for us to go. We're coming out of the tunnel now. Get ready."

Carter was already grabbing their duffels from the back seat, flinging the strap over her shoulder. She handed another one to him and watched him to do the same as he slowed the car down as much as he could without allowing the SUV to close the distance.

"On my mark," he said through gritted teeth, using one hand to steer and another to readjust the strap of the duffel.

The street lamps whizzed past them as he rounded a corner and into the fading light of the evening. She felt the blood pound in her ears as the adrenaline filled her veins, her senses registering the unusually loud whine of the car's engine rumble.

"Ready…and…go!"

Sam pushed open her door and flung herself out onto the pavement, bracing for the impact when her body would hit the concrete. A second later, she slammed hard onto the ground and rolled into a crouch, wincing at the sudden shock that sent a wave of pain down her side. She took a second to re-orientate, thankful that the soft duffel had taken some of her fall.

Looking up, she saw that O'Neill had done the same but he was much faster than her, and was now quickly running towards her from the opposite side of the road. He had already drawn his weapon, held tightly in his right hand with the duffel slung over his shoulder the way she had done hers. Hurriedly, she righted herself and felt him grab her elbow as he came to her side.

A few metres away, their abandoned car had mounted the kerb and crashed into a street sign, partially blocking the lane. There was no way in hell there could be no oncoming traffic, especially not when the main arterial roads leading out of the city were running perpendicular to this particular bypass.

Which meant that the ends of the road must have been blocked for a specific purpose, the implications of which were chilling.

Behind them, she heard a screeching sound from a vehicle's sudden brake and the rumbling engine of the SUV as it neared them.

O'Neill was already pointing to the left of the junction that was twenty metres down the road.

"That way!"

They took the curve of the road, and went around the divider, concealed by the obtuse angle of the upcoming intersection. Taking a left, they ran as far as they could up the walled road, up the slight incline then stopped at the corner that offered them minimal hiding space. Crouching down, she crept up to the sloping part of the wall where she could have a view of the road, forcibly swallowing her fear.

Four hooded men had emerged from the vehicle armed to the teeth, carrying rifles and Berettas as they made their way towards the intersection that they had just crossed.

Military, or hired professionals, she thought, watching their calm demeanour as two of them took the left turn and the other two turned right in search of them.

Jack's tactical assessment of their situation was grim: they were hemmed in, trapped between the walled, narrow uphill road that curved right from another junction and the shooters who were coming towards them from the other end of the road. From the top of the gentle slope, he heard the revved engine of another approaching vehicle.

Cornering both him and Carter.

Cutting off all plausible outlets of escape. In all likelihood, the car or truck turning their way wasn't friendly.

He looked upwards, then left and right, calculating the amount of time that would take for the vehicle to reach them. Fifteen, maybe twenty seconds.

The shooters would be there in less than ten.

They could scale the walls. Their heights gave them an advantage.

"Carter, get over the wall. I'm gonna give you a boost," he snapped and crouched immediately, cupping his hands.

"What about you?" Her eyes were wide in near panic. The thought of leaving him behind made her nauseous.

"You can pull me up when you're at the top. Come on!"

She wasted no time, stepping into his cupped hands and pushing herself onto the top, then leaned forwards to extend her hands to him. Once he had hauled himself up, she dropped down to the other side and waited.

He had barely scrabbled to the top to swing his legs over the wall when they caught sight of him. He dropped over to the other side next to Carter, barely managing to avoid the spray of bullets that marred the white wall black.

He had no doubts that those men were already climbing up after him. Grabbing Carter's hand, he made off into the junkyard, past the disused storage buildings that stored hills of scrap metal.

Taking a quick look around him as they ran at full speed, he realised that they had climbed into a large, industrial junkyard that ran parallel to the entire length of the tunnel they had exited a few minutes ago. Rounding the corner of the building, he signalled for them to stop, holstering his gun as he stood against the wall.

_What the hell was he thinking?_

As though he'd heard her unspoken question, he turned and nodded at her, trying to reassure her with his eyes.

Sam nodded back at him once, took his lead and raised her gun, pressing her back against the rough brick wall and steadied her stance. She had understood what he'd meant to do: a good, old-fashioned trap that would take them unawares from a blind corner.

They would only get one chance at this. Any hesitation on her part would be fatal for the both of them. She took in a deep breath to calm her nerves.

The heavy sound of footsteps. Running their way.

The sound of bones breaking reached her ears as O'Neill moved like lightning, breaking the man's hand that held the rifle followed by his neck.

Taking advantage of the second shooter's momentary distraction, she put two rounds into his chest and watched him crumple to the ground.

It was all over in seconds.

She slumped against the brick wall, panting as the tension drained out of her, the gun hanging limply off her fingers.

O'Neill was already grabbing their rifles, rummaging through their pockets for any sort of identification. He retrieved what looked like their wallets and shoved them into his duffel.

"Carter, get up," he whispered harshly and moved to help her up. "No time to lose. There're two more of them out there looking for us and they would have heard the shots if they're nearby. Let's go!"

She scrambled to her feet, mindful of the unfamiliar aches that she was starting to feel in various parts of her body and crossed the open courtyard with him, not liking the lack of cover.

As they turned the corner, she saw the urban sprawl in the distance, the twinkling lights of the city looking like a beckoning angel of salvation.

O'Neill helped her over the low ledge of the last block they had passed, and from that alcove, they had a vantage point where they could survey the entire courtyard of the industrial estate.

A heavy hand on her shoulder made her look at him.

He tilted his head westwards and she saw the third man approaching their hiding place. In a few seconds, he would be directly under where they were standing.

A single, carefully-aimed gunshot from O'Neill took him out, and she watched him fall to the ground face forward.

She was about to turn to him when a hand clamped hard over her mouth in a vise-like grip. A backwards headbutt and a blind kick to the shin made her attacker grunt in surprise but he recovered quickly, pulling her down onto the ground in a hard pivot.

He was most likely trained in hand-to-hand combat but so was she.

It was her fight. At least she was determined for it to be. Hoping that O'Neill did not interfere, she dug in, praying dimly that the fleeting – and perhaps foolish – show of bravado wouldn't cost her a price too high to pay.

They rolled, each trying to gain dominance over the other. A foot in her ribs caused her gun to be tossed to the side. Her answering lurch into him made the both of them crumple to the ground. Her attacker's heavier weight an advantage, he moved easily to pin her down, but she twisted and tried to reach upwards, scissoring her legs to knock him off his balance. The unexpected blow made him fall on his knees next to her, but not before a vicious swipe of his arm against her face brought her down with him again. She stifled a groan of pain as she fell partially atop him, trying to scramble to her feet once more.

He lunged sideways for her. She rolled to avoid him and moved to the side as quickly as she could, stumbling in her haste to reach her gun, finding the holster empty.

Her Beretta skidded and screeched across the empty space, then stopped squarely in her outstretched hand. She gratefully looked up to see O'Neill's grim expression as he'd kicked her gun towards her. Scrambling to get a foothold, she spun to face her attacker.

The telltale click of the trigger being pulled had her attacker looking at her in that frozen moment of horror.

In the next second, she emptied the rest of her clip into his chest.

The noise was deafening in the relative silence of the abandoned estate.

Sam stood unmoving over the body of the downed man, watching the blood rapidly stain the ground.

Somewhere in the distance, O'Neill seemed to be speaking. His voice shook her from the dreamlike haze that seemed to permeate the entire situation.

"…Carter…you ok?"

His eyes were dark with concern, his brow furrowed.

No, she wasn't. Basic training, flying in the gulf followed by lab research hadn't really prepared her for this. But O'Neill was never going to know that. She forced herself to speak. "Yeah. Let's go."

He paused before moving off, meeting her eyes. "You did good back there, Carter."

She watched his long strides with a troubled expression, then moved to follow him.

* * *

Jack kept a careful eye on her as they quickly dismantled two of the rifles of their attackers and buried the parts in various scrap heaps.

They kept the other two.

"A short-barreled SCAR-L. Modern hollowpoint ammunition that's forbidden to the rest of the military. Officially, at least. Expanding bullets," he clarified and glanced at her. "The same sort that I used to use."

"The sort given to the Special Forces soldiers?"

"Yeah."

She checked the clips of the rifle then dismantled the gun as best as she could so that its parts could fit into her bag.

Her movements were jerkier and clumsier than what he was used to seeing, something that he could either attribute to her relative inexperience with such situations or to her barely concealed reaction to the events of the past hour. The latter seemed more likely.

He was doing the same thing as she did, only with a more experienced and faster hand. Pausing, he stopped his actions, moving to reassure her and quietly said, "I meant what I said earlier, Carter. You did good. More than good, actually."

She gave him a humourless chuckle. "Level three, advanced, hand-to-hand. It's got to count for something, right?"

He studied her closely, silently, then nodded. Then seeing her nearly finished, he beckoned her forward. "C'mon."

Merging into the pedestrian flow even at the outskirts of the city was going to be difficult – again. They looked – once more – worse for wear, dishevelled as hell, and pretty much like the tramps they were. He pulled his cap over his eyes and she drew her hood over her head, hiding her bright hair.

"What now?" Carter asked in a low voice. "There's probably another vehicle full of them out there."

"Yeah, they can't be too far, but sometimes the most obvious way is the best form of subterfuge," he replied equally softly.

"What do you mean?"

"These guys can't afford to make a commotion in a crowded place. The last thing they want to do is cause any panic in public. It's an internal job. Furthermore, navigating in a car is also different from navigating on foot. If you walk, there're more pathways open to you than it would be for a car."

She thought for a moment. "So you're banking on them not being able to take the same routes we're taking?"

"That, and that they've got to be discreet about it," he agreed.

"Which might also mean that the most obvious way could be the safest," she pointed out thoughtfully. "How well do you know this place?"

He frowned in concentration, trying to remember the exact layout of the city as best as he could. "The city in the '80s? In the good ol' days, pretty well. Used to visit over several summers a long time ago. Anyway, if I do remember correctly, we aren't too far from where we want to be. About five miles in this direction, then another three more when we cross the transverse that cuts through the centre of town through the park. On foot."

Still pumped on adrenaline, her heart still pounding, she nodded.

"Let's go."


	17. Chapter 17

_A/N: Warnings for strong language. _

* * *

**Chapter 16**

**Roanoke, Virginia  
29 September 1995 **

They made their way across town, their strides eating up the distance quickly as they neared a middle-class suburb in the Roanoke, pausing behind pillars or the sides of buildings when they thought they recognised a vehicle that looked like the one that had near trapped them on the street. Continuing only they were satisfied that they weren't being followed, they avoided the busy streets where they could, taking parallel roads and some back alleys when the crowds became more of a hindrance than a help in concealment.

It amazed her still how beautiful the city could be when night fell. The glittering city lights came into focus as shadows lengthened, then faded when they finally reached the edge of a suburb.

Sam tried to match her strides with O'Neill's long ones as they made their way through the leafy suburbs, stealing peeks through their windows, observing families living their blissfully oblivious lives.

At the end of the row of houses, a white, single-storey house stood half concealed by the riotous growth of rose bushes that seemed to deter rather than welcome any visitor.

The door creaked open a few inches after O'Neill rang the bell.

"Jack, is that you?" A gravelly voice laced with disbelief came through the tiny wedge of space between the door and the threshold.

"Yeah it is, Tom."

The door opened fully to reveal a hunched, portly white-haired man standing at its threshold, his watery blue-eyes twinkling in delight. "Jacky-boy!"

"Hey, Tom," he tried a casual greeting, and then was crushed in a bear-bug by the old man who seemed to show surprising strength for his age.

"Come in, come in! And who's your lovely companion here, eh, Jacky-boy?" Tom winked at her and grinned.

The one whom O'Neill called Tom seemed to be an unthreatening and friendly man who looked to be in his seventies, emanating a warmth that came from years of navigating the tricky but rewarding waters of familial relations.

She liked him immediately, the same way she had taking a liking to Colin Payner. But her greeting was subdued, tempered by the bitter memory of having to see Col's burnt body too soon after she had been introduced to him.

"Samantha Carter," she said, not waiting for O'Neill's introductions, and stretched out her hand in greeting.

"Pleased to meet you, miss. I'm Tom Reese, but hey, call me Tom, the way Jack does," he replied, still grinning. "Jack never brings the pretty ones here, you know, until Sara, and then you."

"Sara?" That name didn't sound familiar. Could she have been his…ex-wife?

"Tom," O'Neill said a bit too loudly and ignored her question, clapping his hand heavily on the old man's shoulder. "Hey, we need your help."

"What kind of help?"

He looked around them again, as though reassuring himself that there were no threats in the vicinity. "First of all, we need a place to stay."

"Done. The kids have moved out, and ever since Marlene died, the house has been empty," Tom said in a more subdued tone, ushering them in and locking the front door. "Jack's not been here in nearly seven years, but he'll find that the place hasn't changed that much!"

They followed him to the spare room at the back, no longer surprised nor flustered to find a double bed. Being on the run had after all, brought several more important things into focus; the presence of a double bed just seemed too petty an issue in the light of things.

"Look, you kids just settle in. I'll be sure to get you something to eat soon. I'll holler when it's done," Tom said excitedly and closed the door behind them.

"Thanks, Tom," O'Neill called out loudly, then looked at her. "Carter, we've got stuff to look at."

She was already bent over and unzipping the duffel, laying out the contents of the wallets of the hitmen on the bed.

"Richard Tomasson, Chris Barrett, Patrick Kreton, Robert Fields," she said, scanning the names on the cards and the paraphernalia that lined the inside of their wallets. "Any of them sound familiar?"

"No," he replied. "But from the make of their guns and bullets, we already know that they're also Special Forces or have been at some point."

"Why am I not surprised?" Sam muttered in consternation. It made sense that it would and take highly-trained men to take out one of their own and most probably, one of their very best. "It must be big for them to send such people after us."

"Whoever we're looking at, they've got unlimited resources," he agreed, taking out the dismantled rifle parts and examining them. He turned them over in his hands carefully. "It's a newer, Special Ops-only modified model that delivers a better kill-shot."

"Do you think…," she stated hesitantly, torn between wanting to know and willingly keeping herself in the dark, "do you think that they were the ones who might have gotten Catherine?"

"Yes." He answered her without faltering, without uncertainty. "And if they didn't, then it would be someone else with a similar profile. Point is, it could be anyone, from anywhere."

"I could check out their service records using my dad's network," she said after a minute of silence, rummaging through her bag to set up her own laptop. "Something might come up there."

"You do that," O'Neill nodded in approval, walking to the window to look out at the lawn, now darkened by night. The house opposite the road was lit and if he squinted hard enough, he thought he could make out the presence of a large family sitting down to dinner.

For the next few minutes, all Jack heard were the sounds of Carter tapping on the keyboard. He allowed his mind to drift a little, thinking back to the car chase earlier in the day. Wondering just how many more traps they'd set. Or how they'd tracked them.

He and Carter had escaped by the skin of their teeth. Only his training and Carter's surprisingly good sense and abilities got them out of it.

It took him a while to realise that Carter was actually speaking to him even though her eyes were still focused on the screen.

He turned back apologetically. "Didn't hear it, Carter, sorry."

"I was asking if you found it unusual that they've been on to us from the very start? Almost anticipating all of our moves?"

His gaze sharpened as he found her on the same train of thought. "Do you think that-?"

"-there might be a tracking device on us?" She finished his sentence slowly, her fingers moving to shut the laptop down.

She went through one of the duffels for a small toolkit.

Her movements were sure and fluid. The laptop was dismantled in under a minute, the small tracking chip found embedded in its innards.

Carter held it up for his inspection. "It probably only works when either the laptop is switched on, or when it's connected to the military's telnet. Thank goodness I hadn't logged on yet."

"Son of a bitch," he bit out in realisation, "I should have known."

She threw it on the floor, then crushed it with her heel.

The laptop was reassembled in the same time it had been taken it apart.

"I can't believe I didn't think of that earlier," she said with a frown.

Jack stared at that tiny chip that had met its end at bottom of her shoe. "Me neither. But hopefully that makes our lives a bit easier. "

Carter went back to her search and asked casually as she typed, "So, how did you know Tom?"

"Family friend," he simply replied and turned back to the window. "Close friend of my grandfather's. We used to come here couple of summers back in those days."

"Military too?" She asked curiously.

"For a while. Retired a Major a long time ago, then got into the manufacturing business. But he's kept close contacts with his friends in the military."

"Your grandfather was in the military?"

He smiled briefly in remembrance. "Yeah. All his life, in fact. Fought in the first World War then retired a Colonel. I always wanted to be like him, so I joined the Air Force to become a pilot."

The thought of a young, aspiring Jack O'Neill cleaved to his grandfather's side, listening in rapt attention to the stories of war, brought an answering smile to her face.

"I was close to him. My granddad had many friends in the Air Force and he brought me to see them whenever we had family vacations. Tom was one of them. Someone who was about my father's age. He watched me grow up, then said there would always be a place for me here should I ever need it."

There was so much Sam wanted to ask – about his parents, about the mysterious woman called Sara – yet it seemed inappropriate to do so considering their situation unless he volunteered the details. And O'Neill was the total opposite of forthcoming. If he didn't want to make anything known, no one, least of all her, would ever find out.

The laptop screen flashed red.

"We have something," she reported, seeing the relief on his face that appeared for a second before the emotion was shuttered out. "They're Special Forces, as we predicted, all except Richard Tomasson, who was an Army ranger. Mostly scrubbed clean. At one point in time, they shared the same commanding officers: Major General Peter Vandenburg and Major General Adrian Lowen."

"Vandenburg's name keeps coming up," he observed.

"Yeah, him."

"When was Vandenburg their CO?"

"Officially, they were seconded to Area 51 for two years. From the end of 1990 to nearly the end of 1992, under the command of Peter Vandenburg. After that, their records differ. Richard Tomasson was deployed to Mogadishu in 1993 and worked with the Special Forces. Barrett, Kreton and Fields seem to be green berets who went on to join special reconnaissance and counter-terrorism teams under Adrian Lowen after their assignments in Nevada."

He crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed next to her, lacing his fingers together on his lap. "So, Vandenburg, Area 51. These two keep coming up together."

"Colin did say that Vandenburg's assignment at Area 51 lasted a long time too," Sam added, thinking about the possible assignments that these hitmen could have been given.

He gave no response as he stared hard at his interlaced fingers, then moving to cross them over his chest.

"Hey, O'Neill," she suddenly said, and turned to him, ignoring the faint look of annoyance that flashed his face when she said his last name. "Do special ops soldiers still get recalled for assignments by their former commanding officers?"

O'Neill's brow was furrowed in concentration. "Possible, but it doesn't happen very often. But it wouldn't be out of the ordinary. Special Forces assignments are varied and often top-secret, so being recalled to duty in another branch of the military would not be questioned."

"If you're right about that, then it's probably logical that they could have been recalled by their former CO while they worked in Area 51. In this case, that would be Vandenburg, who's still there," she said in growing excitement. "And because the requirement for Area 51's level of clearance is one of the highest in the country, Vandenburg could have easily deployed them for other….activities while comfortably shielding his orders through their non-disclosure agreements."

"Got that right, Carter."

"Well, nothing's changed that much, actually," she sighed in return. "Col had pointed us in the direction of Area 51 and Vandenburg's involvement, but this is nothing that we don't know already. These men have just given us confirmation that that we're looking in the right direction."

"They're only pawns for the higher-ups," he pointed out. "The same way we are. It's unlikely that they know anything more other than to do what they're told. We obviously need those behind this whole crap."

"And," she added, "as for West, I have my suspicions that his financial dealings in the Stargate program are not directly related to Vandenburg."

"Did you find anything out of the ordinary with West?" Jack asked.

"Nothing a civilian wouldn't know. Whoever's behind this has got his back."

A sharp rap on the door startled them out of their hushed conversation.

"Jack, Samantha, food's ready!"

There was no mistaking her grin of relief.

The thought of a proper meal made Carter smile like Christmas had come early.

She wore that same expression that Charlie and Sara used to wear each time he came back from some godforsaken assignment abroad, he thought with a pang of longing and guilt.

"God, I'm starving," she murmured.

"Yeah, me too," he admitted, never more glad for Tom's yet-unquestioned and unwavering hospitality.

He saw Carter bracing herself to ask something and wondered why.

Her next few words knocked the breath out of him. "Who's Sara?"

"She's –"

"Jack, Samantha!"

Tom's holler ground his words to a halt.

He looked relieved, almost grateful for the momentary distraction that Tom provided.

She looked furious, then hid the emotion beneath a bland look.

No matter how relieved he felt about Tom's interruption, he knew – and dreaded – that it was something they'd have to talk about some time soon.

Then the urgency of their situation took over. They turned to each other, then moved in sync to keep everything that might look suspicious to Tom. There wasn't a chance in hell they would take for Tom to somehow discovered what they were hiding.

She moved to open the door, her hand already twisting the knob when she felt his hand rest gently on her upper arm.

He leaned in so closely that she resisted the urge to shiver from the warm breath that caressed the fine hairs at her neck. "Tom doesn't need to know anything more than we should give. Provide only the bare minimum if he wants to ask questions. Leave no room for his curiosity," he insisted, dead serious.

She knew what he was saying. It was the least they could do to keep their acquaintances out of the trouble they were in so that the innocent would not suffer any more for their misdeeds than they did.

"The bare minimum," she echoed softly in agreement, meeting his eyes straight on.

Satisfied with her acquiescence, he motioned for her to go.

* * *

"Something smells really good out here."

It was the irresistible waft of well-brewed Java that Jack smelled when he emerged from the room.

"It is, if you are hungry enough to ignore the overcooked eggs and burnt toast, which I suspect you are," Reese shot back. "You guys must be starving."

"Wow…this looks really good," Carter said in awe.

Tom Reese carried the coffee pot towards them, eyeing Jack jovially.

"Good guess," Jack replied casually, looking around the cosy room in appreciation. "Tom, I can't thank you enough –"

"You're family, Jack, but you don't seem to know that every time you come here," Reese replied fondly, mockingly patting the younger man's shoulder. "So help me god, if you say that again, son, I'll hit you."

"Got it, Sir."

The large oak table in the small dining room dwarfed even the kitchen cabinets, but Jack's attention was already on the food that lined the table.

Reese had prepared enough toast, tomato soup, grilled cheese and coffee to feed his entire suburb. He cheerfully beckoned them over as he finished laying the table.

A surreptitious glance at Carter's face told him that she probably felt the same way he did. And was trying, fairly successfully, to hide it.

Jack wasn't able to shake off the crawling sensation that had taken up residence at the back of his neck as they crossed the living room into the dining room, a corner of which faced the road.

Then again, it was a rational, expected reaction to the adrenaline-filled moments of the past few hours, he reasoned. Or was it?

The lingering sense of unease refused to depart, and if there was any precious lesson that he'd learnt in his years of service, it was to trust what his gut told him despite what the situation appeared to be. The last time he'd done it, Janet Fraiser had lived to see many more days. More significantly, he wasn't also about to risk Carter's life, not if he could help it.

Jack took a seat that gave him the best view of the small road that led down the row of houses, gently shoving Carter into the seat next to him. It earned him a brief, puzzled look from her.

He hoped that Tom hadn't noticed their exchange.

Reese didn't.

He was talking animatedly about the atypical cold snap that had overtaken the state in the past three days, lamenting the insufficient heating in the house as he moved to the table to dish out the food and pour out the steaming, aromatic liquid.

"Now, eat," Reese ordered. "I never thought I'd see you again, Jack. Now I know there're so many questions to ask but I think…" he trailed off in amusement and shook his head. "Food first, talk later."

Jack wholeheartedly agreed internally and cracked a smile at him. Anxiety aside, the first bite of the toast and grilled cheese was like an oasis in the desert to a dying man. Carter had muttered her thanks to Tom and was now making her way through an impressive amount of soup.

He looked out at the lawn and beyond that, the road, the darkness of the beckoning night pierced by the harsh yellow of the street lamps.

Seeing that Jack had nearly finished, Tom began again rather impatiently. "So what brings you to my door -"

"Tom –" Carter began uncertainly, then stopped when she heard him speak simultaneously when she did.

"Tom," he interjected heavily, before shooting an apologetic glance to Carter again, "I'm not going to…I can't say too much except 'thank you' as many times as you wish to hear."

"Work again, huh?" Seeing Jack's hesitant nod, he continued, "it's difficult these days you know, compared to how different things were in the military back when your granddad was flying planes for them."

"Yeah, he used to talk about that."

Reese turned his attention to Carter. "More coffee, Samantha?"

"I'm good, Tom, thanks," she replied politely, giving him a slight smile. She hardly knew what to say, so she just looked at him for a moment before turning her eyes away. How could she look into his eyes honestly when he could soon be lying dead somewhere because of them?

"Hey, any friend of Jack is a friend of mine," Reese said, then turned to Jack cheerfully. "How's Charlie and Sara by the way? Bet he's growing up too soon, eh? I know saw your own father grow up you know…"

Blindsided by the question, shock, pain and grief jolted him upright in his seat as he struggled to maintain a neutral façade. He looked away from Tom and shifted in his seat uncomfortably.

Charlie and Sara had been with him the last time they visited Tom. Charlie had been a toddler and was adorably curious about everything. He and Sara had contemplated having another –

Fuck.

He felt that familiar twinge of guilt rise from his gut. He should have expected it, dammit. Should have expected Tom's and Carter's questions and their curiosity, no matter how innocent they seemed.

But somehow even that difficult topic had been given him some perspective since he and Carter had gone on the run. Their survival had taken first priority and slowly, faced with this…challenge that had seemingly insurmountable odds to overcome, his nightmares that had previously been filled with images of blood stains and ambulance sirens since Charlie's death had started to fade.

Carter was staring at him in puzzlement, then in partial understanding.

Regaining a semblance of emotional control, he looked at them, then at the window where he heard the sound of an approaching car.

The vague sense of uneasiness that had persistently hung on his shoulders a few minutes ago – the niggling thought that something had fucked up somewhere – sharpened into a strong, primal wave of fear and dread.

Which had nothing to do with Carter's or Reese's probing questions of his long-departed family.

There was something amiss, something just not quite right with the situation at hand, despite that long-lost family-gathering thing at which Reese apparently tried his hand.

The host himself was talking too much, too fast. Beads of sweat dotted Reese's forehead as he took shallow breaths, not stopping for their answers to his questions.

A sign of uncertainty and nervousness.

He'd never seen Tom that way…the anxiety, the fretfulness in his demeanour so unlike the jovial and welcoming person he thought he'd known.

Jack looked – really looked – at Reese and saw the man's answering guilty stare then snapped his head towards the window in time to see a black car pulling up at Reese's porch.

"I'm sorry, Jack," Reese said helplessly, spreading his hands in a plea. "They told me you're a wanted man. That you, along with a blonde woman have been evading the MPs for too long. I couIdn't believe it but when you turned up just they way they warned me you would, I had to call them."

Jack didn't bother with a reply.

"Carter," he hissed, nearly toppling his chair in his haste to leave. "Time to go."

Their meal suddenly abandoned, he ran to the guest room, Carter close on his heels as the front door burst open.

Jack thought he heard Reese shouting as he shouldered his duffel. Carter had slung hers over her shoulder before he did, and was already prying the window open.

She climbed out nimbly, already attaching the silencer to her weapon that she had unholstered as he followed her out.

The room to the guest door crashed open just as he had swung his body past the ledge, barely avoiding the sharp edge of the window.

The barrel of a gun slammed against his forehead. He winced in pain and stumbled, dimly realising that those goons must have sent some others out back while the rest stormed Reese's house in search of them.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Carter take aim. The muted shots of a muffled gun caused his attacker to slump against him.

"Fucking hell," he breathed, relieved that the ever-reliable Carter had watched his six.

Then she was roughly grabbed from behind by another hooded figure who twisted the gun out of her fingers and pressed a wad of cloth against her nose. He watched in horror as she collapsed limply in front of the man, who then immediately swung her up in a fireman's carry out to the waiting car out front.

_Carter! No!_

But before he could react, a fist to his face made him stumble backwards. Momentarily blinded by the pain, he lashed out with his own hands and shoved at his assailant's stomach, then flipped the other man over and kneed him hard in the groin before kicking him hard in the shin and the sides.

Boiling anger and building panic gave his own punches and kicks greater force. It took a great effort to rein himself in, knowing that there were more important things to take care of.

Leaving that goon out cold, he ran toward Reese's front porch, only to see Carter gagged and unconscious in the back seat as the car took off, its tires squealing in the quiet suburban night.

He could give chase immediately, seeing as they've not had gotten too much of a headstart for him to catch up. But Carter's DNA trace hadn't been disabled in his laptop and her whereabouts was thankfully going to be fairly easy to retrieve.

The fallen man, on the other hand, was a potential, and precious source of information. Faced with the immediate choice of getting Carter and the opportunity to glean more about their shadow pursuers, Jack chose the latter, taking the calculated risk in the hope that Carter was too precious a national treasure to be disposed of too quickly.

He swallowed hard and fought the rising panic. In the effort to pull himself together, he squandered precious seconds as he forced the revulsion aside and tried to focus.

There was still one of them left.

He could work with that.


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 17**

**Roanoke, Virginia**  
**29 September 1995 **

The pulse was steady, the head wound superficial.

Satisfied that the fallen man wouldn't wake up anytime soon, Jack strode into the house again, not stopping until he found Reese in the kitchen, pressed against a wall in fear.

With a hand around Reese's neck, he drove the old man against the wall hard, revelling in the loud thud of the impact.

The old man struggled briefly, then stilled when Jack started to speak.

"I don't know what the hell you were thinking, Reese, but let me just say this," he warned, moving a finger slowly over a sensitive spot in the throat where he knew the application of a bit more pressure could choke the life out of a person. "If anything happens to Carter, I want you to know that I'll be back. And it won't be for a friendly visit. Now I'm going to take your car and the man outside –" he tilted his head slightly in the direction of the backyard, "will be out of your hair."

Released suddenly from Jack's iron grip, Reese doubled over the linoleum floor of the kitchen, coughing and spluttering as he struggled to get air into his lungs.

He looked up to see the younger man heading for the door.

"Don't call the cops, Reese," Jack said casually in farewell, briefly stopping at the doorway.

He grabbed some duct tape from the storage, swiped Reese's car keys, shouldered both his duffel and the one Carter had dropped in her struggle, then made his way outside.

Dragging the unconscious man into the trunk of Reese's car, he took off into the night.

* * *

**Richmond, Virginia**  
**30 September 1995**

The soft sunlight filtering through the small, dirty window in a disused factory storeroom in Richmond was how Jack knew that morning had broken.

Still he worked on his laptop, grateful that Carter hadn't cannibalised its parts for her research, redirecting the DNA trace program that had been installed at the very start of his mission to predict the trajectory of the vehicle carrying her.

A soft beep sounded from the program, signalling the end of the hourly scan.

The red dot that was Carter showed that she was still in the state of Virginia, slowly heading north in the direction of Washington D.C.

He slammed the screen of the laptop shut, stowing it away in the shadows where his duffel was when he heard a slight stirring from the corner of the room.

Carter had to wait for just a while longer.

He stood and crossed to the chair in which the man sat.

An injection of Pentothal into his assailant's veins brought the unconscious man tied tightly to the chair closer to waking.

He took his place in a chair opposite him, positioned exactly a metre away.

"Rise and shine," he told the blinking man lazily, who stilled in his position as soon as he realised that he had been tied.

"Tell me your name," Jack ordered softly, knowing full well that his captive wouldn't break that easily.

He had expected the silence and the poker face.

Then he stood up, yanked hard on the man's hair so that his neck snapped back. He drove a fist into the man's face, splitting the nasal bone and the skin on his forehead. He repeated the action, bringing a spray of blood onto the walls and onto his shirt.

"I want to know who sent you and the others," Jack said again calmly.

Another hit followed in the ensuing silence. For an indeterminate amount of time, his desperate punches flew again and again when his questions were met with stony refusal.

Jack fought the urge to yell in frustration. He didn't have all day, not especially when Carter's life could be bleeding away in an unknown corner of the country.

"I want names."

Another hit, this time cracking the man's cheekbones. It drew an anguished shout from his victim, but Jack needed more than just screams of pain.

He circled his captive slowly, taking his time to observe the tiny details that were becoming apparent now that the other man was awake.

Seated in a way to resist torture for as long as possible. The constant wrist movement against the binds that aided circulation in that unforgiving position. So he seemed to know something about common Special Forces training.

"Give me names."

A bloodied face turned slowly and defiantly up at him. "Fuck you."

It was clear that the man wasn't going to talk.

This called for…greater inventiveness.

"I see." Jack raised a syringe in his right hand and gestured to the three syringe-bottles that sat next to his chair. "Do you see these bottles? The first one is Panthenol. Truth syrup. I gave you that."

He took his seat across the man, picked up the second empty bottle and held it out between his thumb and forefinger. "See the second one? It's another cocktail that gradually gets your nerves shot through. I gave you that two hours ago. You'll soon see how it works."

The third bottle was held out under his assailant's nose, the colourless liquid dull in the dimness of the small, confined space. "This one's potassium chloride. A lethal dose without the pain reliever. Your veins will burn as the poison gets to your heart. But the amount I'm going to give you to start with wouldn't be enough to stop your heart beating yet. It will take several more doses over the next few hours to do that. Or even the next few days. And if you think it's going to be fast and painless, think again."

The man's eyes widened and his mouth opened in panic, he observed in satisfaction.

They were getting somewhere.

"So would you like to think about my questions again?"

Jack was getting tired of the man's reticence. Piercing the thin metal top of the bottle with the syringe needle, he watched his former assailant wide-eyed stare at the clear liquid steadily filling the syringe's plastic barrel.

With a ready thumb on the plunger, he moved closer. The needle had just pierced the man's jugular when he let out a panicked shout of acquiescence.

"I'll talk! I'll talk!" The man burst out in terror, panting hard.

Jack leaned back in the chair, carefully setting down the syringe and the bottle on the floor. "So talk. Let's start with your name." He gestured amiably to the man.

"Nicholas Thompson."

"And?"

"We were hand-picked by General Peter Vandenburg," Thompson said in consternation, his words tumbling out. "We were told that there were military fugitives who gave the MPs the slip and that they needed our skills. That we had to get them because they were enemies of the state."

"I want more names."

"The others are named Tommy Creech, Derek Wallace, Lionel Tennyson, Robert Slate," he rattled off hurriedly, stripped of his inhibitions. "General Vandenburg gave us our assignment and told us that Slate was going to be the leader in this. But I think there were two other men there, at the back of the room when we were told about this assignment. They were having a conversation and I just heard names when they talked. Something about a Senator William Curtis and another General Thomas Baker. I swear, that's all I know! Me and four others. We don't know each other, never met before until this."

Thompson closed his eyes briefly and took a deep breath, the air whistling noisily in his throat as he tried to inhale.

"What do they want with Carter?"

"They were supposed to get any sort of information that she was carrying around and not kill her. Baker said that she was still useful for future projects."

"What sort of information?"

"Anything to do with a top secret project in Cheyenne Mountain."

"Where is she?"

"I..I don't know," he stammered.

"Bullshit," Jack said succinctly, then moved to pick up the syringe.

"Alexandria! They're going to Alexandria!"

He set it down again with a deliberate motion. "Why?"

"I don't know! We were just supposed to deliver her to 203 Surrey Avenue in Alexandria at 2100 hours."

Satisfied that Thompson wasn't lying, Jack circled him once and leaned against the wall behind the slumped figure.

Thompson's words replayed in his mind. All it had taken was a decision taken to ensure Carter's survival to classify him as an enemy of the state. And what about Carter, who had, in all likelihood, gotten her shining career wrecked on the day that she had tried to escape her assailant?

Thompson had helpfully added another name to the list. Peter Vandenburg, and possibly, Winston Orville West. Now Thomas Baker. And that of their goons.

Jack was pretty sure that Thompson hadn't been lying. His own, original assignment was merely a piece in the whole jigsaw of political intrigue and only his conviction about Carter's innocence had led him to countermand his direct orders. The likelihood of these men knowing exactly or even questioning the motivations behind their orders was most probably negligible.

Jack considered the possibilities. Could it be an existing partnership of sorts that had the higher-ups in cahoots hiring former soldiers as mercenaries, picking out those still serving in the Special Forces branch of the military to do their dirty work for them? Or were they simply rogue operatives who saw the advantage in exploiting what the Stargate project would mean for their standings and careers?

Still facing Thompson's back, he asked, "What's your relationship with all of them? Subordinate officer?"

"There's no relationship! I'm an ex-Marine. Left in 1989, after Operation Classic Resolve and set up my own security business. Look, I don't know what the hell you want, but I'm just a gun for hire," Thompson pleaded. "Business is not doing too good lately. I placed an ad one day in the daily newspaper for security escort jobs and got this call from a mysterious man who asked for a meeting in Alexandria."

"How much did you ask for?"

"250,000 grand. They promised to wire the funds to me upon the successful delivery of the target. Just no questions asked. I'm really not your guy."

"Yeah, I believe you," Jack said and stood, gathering his things.

"Hey, you're leaving me here? Come on, man, I told you everything –"

Jack moved to the door and grinned humourlessly at the man's indignant yells. "You'll be okay." His voice dropped and though his tone remained casual, his meaning was unmistakable. "But if word gets out that you and I had a chat…"

He didn't even bother finishing the sentence.

The door slammed shut in his wake.

It was time to get Carter.

* * *

**Alexandria, Virginia**  
**1 October 1995**

Sam was shoved into a windowless room.

Blindfolded, tied and gagged.

Tripping on her feet, she stumbled and nearly fell on her face.

By the time she'd regained her balance, the heavy door had slammed shut behind her leaving the sound of silence ringing in her ears. The faint sounds of voices came through a tiny gap somewhere and she strained to hear them, but the thick walls hid their words from her.

Left alone and no less disoriented than when she had been captured, Sam's thoughts were her only companions. They hovered at the already-frayed edges of her psyche like the malevolence whispers of ghosts, then turned terrifying, teasing and threatening her with the consequences of her actions, telling her how far gone she was with her once-stellar career and her familial relationships.

Before it had all gone to hell, the Stargate program had guaranteed her career prospects while marrying her aspirations in the military and her love of science. O'Neill's sudden presence in her life was both infuriating and reassuring; she had seen how he'd bent and twisted the rules, operating by a moral code that only he alone could decipher.

But being a target for reasons yet unclear had suddenly changed it all.

Her thoughts took a turn for the cynical. If the tactical, sometimes violent moves that O'Neill had executed without hesitation would have horrified her then, she was not entirely shocked to discover that his employment of them now didn't unseat her as it used to. Like O'Neill, she did what she could do to survive, fighting for the right for the both of them to live when others had deemed their lives forfeited.

While she couldn't quite cast away the regulations and the immaculate sense of military discipline that had been her inheritance from living in Jacob Carter's household, her respect for them now wavered after realising that her absolute obedience to them had merely led down a road where she – and O'Neill – were simply part of the collateral damage in a plot much larger than themselves. A plot in which corruption ran rife.

Her father would most likely have heard of her disappearance by now, having kept tabs on her whereabouts and assignments periodically. She knew that he would be sorely disappointed and quite possibly, outraged to the point where he wouldn't want to have anything to do with her. Mark Carter's estrangement of nearly a decade over the issue of her mother's death was not without good reason. Jacob Carter's unforgiving, hard personality had contributed to the widening gap between all of them and she was quite sure her actions wouldn't endear her anymore to him.

Sam's thoughts turned unwittingly to her partner-in-crime. Forced to work as a team, she privately thought that they had done pretty well together given their circumstances, their movements often and surprisingly in sync.

But it was the man himself who had unexpectedly reeled her in. The darkly attractive, enigmatic mystery that was Jack O'Neill, whose granite veneer had barely cracked to fleetingly reveal unfathomable depths in the days that she'd known and grown to trust him. He had turned his back on his orders because his personal convictions had been too strong to ignore in order to do what he felt was right.

How could she fault him for it when it was his persistent but innate sense of morality that had saved her life? Stripped of everything she had previously valued as solid constants in her life, the sudden, pervasive sense of ambivalence that had crept into her moral and emotional centre left her swaying precariously as an unanchored ship in a storm. And while it was painful to admit, O'Neill's practical stability was one of the few things that had kept her upright.

For the umpteenth time, she wondered how he kept it together…and if he was looking for her.

But what would he do if he were in her position right now? Probably find a way to torment his captors, or even break out, she thought wryly.

The creaking sound of the door swinging on its hinges stirred her out of her conflicted thoughts. She felt the displacement of air as someone walked in.

Her arm was roughly grabbed and a triangular shaped, plastic box was shoved into her open hand as her gag was roughly pulled down.

Sam recognised the shape of a sandwich pack.

So whoever wanted her needed her fed and alive. At least until she served her purpose.

A fuzzy, daring plan began to materialise in her head, its sheer audacity sending blood pumping into her veins, calling for her to gather her wits.

It was now or never.

She was going to need all the luck she had.

"Hey you!" She yelled hoarsely at the receding footsteps. "I need the toilet! You wouldn't want a mess here, would you?"

The footsteps stopped and she smiled inwardly in satisfaction. Then the door to her cell slammed shut and before she knew it, a fist in her shirt hauled her upright onto unsteady feet.

"You seem to be pushing your luck," a male voice growled in her ear.

Despite his words, he had apparently acquiesced, dragging her roughly across the room and out into a corridor that smelled musty. Being blindfolded had forced her to rely on her other senses and now, her nose and ears were constructing a mental picture of the location in which she was kept. The sonorous echoes of her captor's footsteps bounced off mutely against the thick concrete walls, suggesting that she was in some kind of barracks or secure storage area.

She stumbled unsteadily after him, cursing the fact that her hands had been tied at the back, greatly reducing her some mobility.

The fresher, outdoor air tingled her nostrils, tinged with a hint of ozone. Cold wind rustled her hair.

They must have left the building complex and were now walking across what seemed to be a quadrangle or a yard to where the toilets were housed. Obediently, she followed his lead until they were in an enclosed space once again.

He made a move to shove her in and sensing him standing just behind her, she struck out on instinct, headbutting him in the face, hoping that she had made a clean hit. The muffled groan told her that she had, but his recovery was swift, and he had the advantage of sight.

She risked a back kick.

Her foot made contact with air.

The sheer force of her captor's returning punch to her face threw her to the floor. She slammed onto the concrete ground and immediately tried to roll into a protective ball but he gave her no time. Vicious, hard kicks to her side made her try instinctively to curl into a ball, but they were coming too fast and too hard. A particularly painful blow to her exposed right rib forced a whimper from her.

The air was burning in her lungs. Then in the haze of pain she fuzzily realised that the kicking had suddenly stopped. The sounds of a brief struggle reached her ears but before she had any time to contemplate what had just happened, the blindfold was torn off her eyes.

Gentle hands helped her sit up as she tried to focus. It took her a while to realise that O'Neill was now untying her bindings.

"You look like hell Carter," he told her bluntly.

"No kidding. Attempting an escape will do that to you," she tried to joke weakly in a hoarse voice, and collapsed in a bout of coughing when she tried to take too deep a breath. "Where are we anyway?"

"Alexandria."

She was surprised. "We're still in Virginia?"

"Yeah. Got that information out of the guy whom they left behind."

"What happened to him?"

"Turns out that he's a hired gun. Doesn't know the rest. Took him somewhere safe. When we finished, I drove into down, dropped a note stating the factory address onto a police car's windscreen and left. Turns out he told the truth," he said, looking at her inscrutably.

Sam didn't need any help reading in between the lines. O'Neill had probably taken him somewhere and flayed the information out of him.

He finished cutting her loose then swung her arm around his shoulders, helping her to stand.

"OK?" He asked in concern when he saw her flinch.

The effort it took to stand up stole her breath. Taking short pants, she told him honestly, "Not really."

"Hate to rush you, Carter, but in about…" he took a quick glance at his watch, "forty-five minutes you were supposed to be picked up by someone else."

The thought both frightened and intrigued her. "Who?"

They made their way out slowly. She felt nothing when she saw the bodies of her captors lying lifeless in the corridor, perhaps only a vague sense of justice that O'Neill had descended on them like an avenging angel.

"That's what we're going to find out next." He eyed her hunched form, knowing there would be nasty and possibly, incapacitating bruises the next day. "You've got to hang on for a bit more, Carter."

She nodded stiffly. "I'll try."

Outside the compound, Sam took in her surroundings lit by the dim torchlight that O'Neill carried. They had brought her to a deserted part of town, to a disused prison site. The grass had grown untended for miles around, making it impossible for a body to found for days on end.

"How did you get here?"

"Tom's car," he replied without preamble and gestured vaguely behind her with his torch. "Hidden there."

O'Neill veered left and brought her to a hidden spot where the grass grew tall enough to hide the both of them. She looked behind and saw that the car had also been quite cleverly concealed in the undergrowth some distance away.

He pulled out a pair of binoculars and gestured for her to sit.

She sat back on her haunches in the damp grass when the headlights of several approaching cars cast illuminating beams onto the complex's facade.

She heard the sounds of their engines a few seconds later as two cars swung into view. Four figures alighted and walked into the complex. They returned only after a few minutes, climbed into the car and drove off.

Letting out a sigh of relief, she turned to O'Neill. "They're Jaguar XJ Sedans." Ignoring his raised eyebrow that was visible in the faint light, she continued, "I couldn't make out the license plates. I sure hope you did."

"Only caught the first car's number. The second parked too closely to the first for me to make out."

"Still, we have a lead," she said and smiled grimly.

"Right, Carter, I think it's now time we got you out of here," he ordered, stashing away his equipment.

"You won't be getting any argument from me there," she muttered.

It was freezing and her teeth had started chattering so loudly that she wondered if O'Neill could hear it, just at the same time he turned a critical gaze on her.

Then looking almost ashamed that he'd forgotten how the cold night air was affecting her, he shrugged off his jacket and placed it over her shoulders, helping her up and into the car.

She put a hand out, stopping him.

"Thank you for coming for me," she said sincerely.

He nodded slowly, then buckled himself in.

By the time he had reversed out of the undergrowth, she had fallen deeply asleep in the knowledge that she was safe again with him, her head resting on the window and her fingers tightly curled in her lap.

It was only then that he steeled himself to take a good look at her, whispering the word that he didn't quite dare to say to her yet.

"Always."


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 18**

**Virginia Coast  
3 October 1995**

The deserted stretch of coastline had its advantages.

He didn't have to travel too far for the both of them to get their much-needed rest.

More importantly, very few people came by, and if they did, they were holidaymakers with just the right amount of curiosity and nosiness who could easily be turned away by a few lies. To the few who insisted on chatting, they'd pretended to be a newly married couple on a honeymoon seeking precious time for themselves before the real world intruded again.

It was clichéd enough to elicit either embarrassed chuckles or knowing looks, but it did the trick of getting rid of unwanted attention.

Jack had rented a beachfront chalet with a balcony that extended out to the beach where they could sit on deck chairs and watch the sunset. At least, he had been doing that alone for the past two days. He made quick but necessary stops at the supermarket in town, preparing their meals in the little cottage itself, far from the public eye.

Carter had spent it sleeping her injuries off, waking only for meals and short walks on the beach.

It worried him more than he cared to admit as he stood on the balcony contemplating the grey horizon.

She'd insisted that she was feeling better, but he'd caught glimpses of the dark, mottled bruises on her ribs that made him think otherwise.

Bruised ribs would heal, he knew that from painful experience. But he hadn't quite so solid a grip on Carter's mental state to know yet if she'd break from the mounting stress, but he'll bet on the fact that her stubbornness wouldn't allow her to.

From a military perspective, Carter was hell of an impressive solider. He knew that very few women actually participated in the bombing runs in the Gulf, or attained the advanced level of hand-to-hand. While the gap in their ages and experiences was still blindingly obvious to him, it didn't take much to figure out that a few years of experience in the field would make Carter a damn good field commander with more nuanced instincts. Despite it all, he'd come to admire the spunky courage that she'd shown and the self-assured way she'd handled herself in dire situations.

He just wished he could be there, several years down the road, to witness that growth.

If the both of them didn't get killed first.

"Penny for 'em."

The sound of her voice reversed the direction in which his thoughts were heading. Jack turned to see her sleepily regard the horizon as she leant on the balcony door.

"Carter, good to see you in the land of the living again. Just wondering what to cook for dinner," he said lightly and turned back to the waves lapping at the shore.

Sam wasn't fooled. But if there as something that she had learnt in the days that she spent with Jack O'Neill, it was that he was as closed a book as he wanted to be. Unless he decided to tear down those walls that guarded the inner sanctum.

"Steak for dinner and chocolate cake for dessert," she quipped. "You don't have to think anymore."

"Woman after my own heart," he grinned boyishly and pushed away from the balcony, catching sight of her surprised face. "Just what I bought from the shops. And beer. A steak dinner is not a steak dinner without beer. How're you feeling by the way?"

"As good as new," she said hurriedly, avoiding his keen gaze. "Good to go, in fact."

"Bullshit," he retorted softly, reaching out a tentative hand to smooth her hair over her face, lightly brushing the fading bruise on her cheek.

He saw her close her eyes at his touch and wondered if she felt as affected by that innocent contact as he did.

"Um...yeah, no, I mean, really, I'll be OK by tomorrow."

He gave her a smirk, then grabbed her hand and pulled her into the kitchen.

When she had told him she wanted a proper steak meal, she hadn't expected that it was exactly what he'd already prepared.

Dinner was hearty and incredibly tasty. Jack O'Neill had proven himself to be a man of many talents when he served just slightly charred meat from the grill outside their chalet, followed by the chocolate-cherry cake that he'd picked up at a bakery.

They sat on the deck chairs eating out of paper plates and plastic utensils as the rapidly cooling breeze blew through the cottage's open door.

At that moment in time, it was almost possible to believe that they were friends at an intimate dinner, not military fugitives who didn't know what tomorrow held.

"You know, I've never been so glad for a bed," she started, trying to make conversation in the silence that had descended when they started eating.

"I met someone at the shops the other day in town. At the hardware store," he said in reply, as though he'd not heard her previous statement, or had chosen to disregard it. "We got talking. Told me to call him Edwards. Left me a number to contact him too."

She sat up, and leaned closer, beseeching him wordlessly to continue.

"Runs a surveillance and private investigation business in his home office. Seems to know many people in the same trade," he paused, eyeing her carefully. Surely she knew where he was going with it?

She nodded slowly, but her eyes signalled her confusion. Only O'Neill could lead a conversation to where he wanted it to go.

"Said he knew one of the goons who came after us when I mentioned Robert Slate's name in passing. Apparently, Slate's his good pal. I told him I owed Slate a favour," Jack continued. "He laughed and told me many people owed him favours, then wished me luck, because Slate's got a disappearing act down to a 'T' Clearly he doesn't know that Slate's gone for good."

"Is Slate in the military?"

"That guy didn't say. It's possible. Or at least, Slate's got to be an AF consultant," Jack mused. "You could send, hell, any damned fool mercenary to do the job to cover your tracks, but for something so highly classified as this, they'd be stupid not to use highly-trained military or ex-military personnel to lead the mission."

He told her what Thompson had revealed a few days ago. "Edwards gave me a place where he would sometimes meet Slate. A makeshift office in a part of Norfolk that he used when he was around."

He handed her a crumpled piece of paper on which an address had been scribbled.

She read it, folded it and handed it back to him. "It's a potential hit, especially if Slate's in cahoots with Thomas Baker and Peter Vandenburg. Thinking of searching the place?"

"You read my mind," he replied lightly. The sheet of paper disappeared into his pocket as he took another bite of his steak.

"I nearly forgot about this, but did you find out anything about the car license plate number?"

"That was the easy bit, actually," he reassured her, "There are several registration loopholes that they've found in order to lead anyone who checks them out astray. Anyway, the long and short of it is, they're registered under a name that doesn't exist in the social security records."

She frowned. "But at least we've got names. However, tracing their names back to some kind of organisation or operation, especially if it's covert and classified would still be near impossible," she said thoughtfully, her expressive eyes lighting up in growing excitement. "Look, Colin Payner handed us Agent Kerry Johnson's contact…maybe, just maybe this is where she can provide some sort of link, maybe an organisation that they all belong to, or some anomalies in their service records, then we would have –"

"Ahh! Hate to put a dampener on, Carter, but don't get your hopes up. Yet."

She leant back in her chair and grinned towards the sky, feeling optimistic for the first time in many, many days. "I'm eager to get started."

"Carter, we started on this quite a while ago," he reminded her dryly.

"I know, I know," she replied dismissively, still buoyant with the progress they've made in those few minutes. "It just feels like there's finally a light at the end of the tunnel, you know?"

Jack had no reply to that. Part of him desperately wanted to believe her; a yet-unacknowledged part of him protested that she'd be out of his life sooner than he'd wanted, or cared to admit.

Carter was still talking. He snapped his head up and caught the end of her sentence.

"-too much time which would give us the option of splitting up," Sam suggested, "I could look up Kerry Johnson in D.C, while you go stake out Slate's office in Norfolk, then we could reconvene here. I'm nearly recovered, after all."

"Well, you see," he started slowly, wondering how he was going to explain it to her. "I think it's best that I go see Kerry personally. Alone."

The use of the CIA agent's first name didn't escape her. "So you do know her?"

Jack grimaced and never looked more ill at ease. "Yeah. We've got history."

"What kind of history?" She asked curiously, then hesitated. "Classified? And Tom Reese asked about some people called Sara and Charlie and I was wondering if they were ac-…"

Sudden, blinding pain. That thunderous gunshot that rang loud in his ears each time he heard Charlie's name. The uncontrollable bleeding, the way Charlie had flatlined…

He struggled to take a breath.

He needed an out…anything, anywhere.

"That's none of your fucking business, Carter," he snapped at her roughly. "Had never been, never will be."

Taken aback by his violent reaction, she tripped over her words in her haste to apologise. "But this…I..."

"Drop it!" He said sharply and stood up, walking to the edge of the balcony as he took a long swig of his beer.

Uncomfortable silence flared between them.

She looked at his back, then down briefly to conceal the hurt that struck her unexpectedly in the middle, more painful than her captor's punches had been.

Getting up, she picked up her empty plate and drink and said rather awkwardly, "Yeah. Well, I guess it's time to call it a night. Thanks for the great dinner. See you in the morning."

He glanced back at her as though he was about to say something, then changed his mind.

She hadn't looked back at him, having already turned to walk through the balcony doors.

He sighed heavily. "Good night, Carter."

The whispered plea was lost in the whistling of the cold wind.

* * *

Sam left O'Neill standing at the edge of the balcony contemplating the stars, reminding herself as she made her way to the bathroom that their purely professional relationship should, in no uncertain terms, stay as it had always been from its uneasy conception – purely professional.

How had it gone pear-shaped so fast?

But why had that mattered? What propelled the sudden, insatiable urge to get O'Neill to open up – and to her, no less?

In short, O'Neill's past dalliances and affiliations had no bearing on what they were doing now. She had no business prying, just as he had no right to her life experiences apart from what he had read in her file, unless someone decided to spill the beans in a fit of insanity.

Then why did she feel as though she had lost part of a burgeoning friendship?

She had opened up more than him, telling him her closely guarded secret of the college incident that had left her scarred on the night of the fire in North Platte, hoping for him to gain an insight into the Samantha Carter that her military file had omitted, perhaps even hoping that he'd see a different person than the one he'd conditioned to kill at the start of his mission.

In retrospect, it was the stupidest thing she could have done.

O'Neill probably looked at her now like a guardian looked after his charge, in all probability feeling as though she needed his protection despite having attained the rank of Captain in the USAF and all the combat skills training that came with it.

Had she truly been that insecure? Ignoring the differences in their ages and experiences, failing to see just how he regarded her? Had she really thought that they were becoming friends after all they'd been through in those weeks?

The gross overestimation of the depth of his feelings made her cringe. Most likely he only saw her as a green officer with a huge feminist chip on her shoulder who needed reassurance in her own abilities. Or some sort of damsel whose reproductive organs were on the inside instead of the outside. Or god forbid, the sort that always needed rescuing when circumstances became dire because she couldn't handle what he could.

In any case, discovering who Samantha Carter was hadn't really mattered to O'Neill. Perhaps it should stay that way.

Anger and shame coursed through her; anger at the unexpected viciousness of O'Neill's cutting words, shame at her own weakness for capitulating to him and at her own needy manifestations of her deep-seated insecurities.

Flicking on the light switch in the bathroom, she went to the counter and splashed cold water onto her face, trying to erase the memory of the angry look on his face as she's asked the question that took down that mirage of everything that had seemed good between them.

She'd been nothing but stupid when it came to men with a lunatic fringe. O'Neill certainly dipped his foot frequently enough in that particular pond and her ex-fiancé Jonas Hansen came a close second. And because she thought that she could fix them, she would, as a psychiatrist long ago had warned her, always be treading down the path of destructive relationships.

O'Neill sure as hell needed fixing, she thought wearily. But she decided that particular job would pass her by this time.

Sam finished up in the bathroom and made her way to the bedroom, changing mechanically into her nightclothes. As her head hit the pillow, she sleepily decided that O'Neill was going to get the soldier that he'd read about and most likely wanted.

* * *

**Virginia Coast  
4 October 1995**

The autumn sun was high in the sky by the time Jack woke up, having stayed out watching the sea until the first rays of dawn shook him out of his racing thoughts.

He stumbled out of his bedroom, walked past the closed door of Carter's bedroom and headed for the bathroom, completely missing the note on the dining table.

The silence of the holiday home made him assume that Carter had probably gone for a walk.

It was good for her to get some air after being in bed for a few days, he reasoned, relishing the steaming hot water over his face and body.

Jack knew that he owed her an apology.

At her mention of Sara and Charlie, and to a lesser extent, Kerry Johnson last night, he'd felt the familiar, suffocating weight press against his chest, unable to control the forceful censure that he'd doled out on her. Overcome with the rush of conflicting and self-recriminating emotions that had only faded when sunrise was imminent, he found that he couldn't do anything else at that point without the numbing comfort of strong, aged whisky.

After that awkward, tense moment, Carter had left quickly and never looked back.

She had merely walked into a forbidden mine trap that he himself wasn't quite ready to confront just yet. Subject to her inquisitiveness, an annoying but useful facet that seemed to be inherent all scientists, he obviously hadn't held up too well under that scrutiny.

But above all, she hadn't deserved his disproportionate, verbally hostile outburst to what was a curious but innocent question. He should have seen it coming – but he didn't. The blame clearly lay more on his part than hers. The altercation with Carter wasn't her fault at all, but…she would take it like a good soldier, wouldn't she?

The continuing silence in the chalet made him frown when he emerged from the bathroom, sniffing the air that drifted in from the sea. There was no sign of Carter having eaten breakfast, or having brewed any coffee at all.

A flash of white caught his eye. He moved to the table and picked it up.

_O'Neill,_

_Off to check out Slate's office in Norfolk. I'm taking the car. _

_Maybe you could pay Agent K. Johnson a visit in the meantime. Even without a car, I'm sure you'll find a way. _

_Figured this might be best._

_Don't wait up tonight._

_C_

Curt, short, to the point.

After reading Carter's neat prints twice in growing disbelief, he slammed down the note on the table with considerable force.

Damn that woman!

She was that that would have been best…best for whom?

What the hell was she thinking, going to Slate's makeshift office on her own? The guy was killed when he shot his way through the warehouse where Carter was held, but it didn't mean he operated alone. Chances were that he didn't.

Then it dawned on him. The timing of her escape was entirely too convenient, especially after last night. Was it all some stupid, childish game of…manipulation and avoidance that women played when they were unhappy?

Suddenly furious with Carter's impulsiveness that could very well risk her life, he rushed to holster his gun, then took it out again to ensure there was a full magazine in it.

He came around the corner, looking for the car keys, then saw an empty spot where it had lain on the mantel the previous night, only to realise that Carter was really gone.

Jack swore viciously, running his hand through his hair in frustration.

If the beach house had given them a respectable distance from public scrutiny, it had also meant that a form of private transport was necessary to get anywhere near civilisation.

The solitary stretch of beach, while guaranteeing privacy, was at least twenty or thirty miles away from the city, and about fifteen miles to the nearest town where he bought their provisions. That meant too, that he was stranded till she got back.

What was there to do but hope that she'd return soon?

* * *

**Norfolk, Virginia  
4 October 1995**

The first rays of the morning sun had illuminated the sea a beautiful golden by the time she crept out of the chalet, having seen O'Neill make his way into the bedroom about two hours prior.

Now Sam sat in the parked car down a side street that gave her a vantage point in observing who came and left Slate's office. Slate was dead, thanks to O'Neill's manoeuvrings in the old army barracks. It also meant that there was not much for her to do except to break into his makeshift office and ruffle through his papers – if there were going to be any at all.

It had been a long, agonising five hours since she'd left the coast, accompanied only by her racing thoughts and the blather of prime time radio as she sped downtown, unconsciously checking the rear view mirror at every turn she made.

But where it had seemed an excellent decision last night to distance herself physically and emotionally from O'Neill, that plan of hers to pay Slate's old office a visit alone was, in the harsh light of day, a foolish one that ran counter-intuitive to all her military training.

Sam shook her head to clear the gathering cobwebs of doubt.

They could work on their own for a while, she decided resolutely. To divide and conquer would be the best for the both of them: their solo efforts in reconnaissance and information gathering would be more efficient if they went their separate ways at times, perhaps even piece the whole puzzle together in half the time.

It would also lessen the risk of either of them – most likely her – crossing any personal boundaries. The unbidden memory of last night's awkwardness made her wince involuntarily.

Pushing that last thought out of her head, Sam got out of the car and made her way to the residence apartment block, slipping in through the front door smoothly as an unsuspecting old lady walked through it.

The heavy door slammed shut behind her. A musty yellow light bulb illuminated a long, dingy corridor that led to a flight of stairs.

Sam climbed up quickly to the third floor and shifted her gaze to the numbers on the top of the doors, moving down the row of them until she reached door 305. She smiled; her Swiss army knife made quick work of the lock and the door creaked open with minimal effort.

The inside of the apartment was unremarkably bare. Empty shelves and filing cabinets lining the wall had been cleaned out thoroughly, the furniture covered with white plastic sheets.

The whole office was frustratingly spotless and...recently abandoned. Whoever had thought to clean up after Slate's death had cleaned up well.

Yet another fruitless search.

It was hard to keep her shoulders straight with that bitterly disappointing realisation, as she slowly turned to leave.

A small object glinted golden in the left corner of the living room's makeshift office, having caught the dim light in the corridor as she swung the door open.

Still standing at the threshold of the door, Sam cocked her head to one side and frowned slightly.

Retracing her steps, she reached down and picked up a small, tarnished hexagonal object the size of a small pendant, turning it to rest in the palm of her hand.

Embossed into the metal, Medusa's head of malevolent snakes stared back at her.


	20. Chapter 20

_A/N: Kiddies, flee. This chapter is rated 'M' for good reason and is of the S/J variety. _

* * *

**Chapter 19**

**Virginia Coast  
5 October 1995**

O'Neill was nowhere to be found when Sam got back to the cottage past midnight.

Only a small lamp lit the living area, filling that part of the cottage with a welcoming yellow glow, even though the place was devoid of human presence.

She was too tired to speculate on his whereabouts.

Having spent the rest of the day in several local libraries exhaustively researching the significance of Medusa in Greek mythology, all she wanted now was a long, hot bath and the welcoming softness of the guest bed.

It took all her strength to get to the bathroom, to shower and change, feeling tired but never more hopeful of their progress.

Footsteps coming from outside the front porch made her look at the door in anticipation despite herself.

Jack O'Neill came in with his brown hair thoroughly windswept, shoes in hand and pants rolled up, looking as though he'd taken a long walk along the beach.

Her heart skipped a beat.

"O'Neill," she started with false brightness, determined to ignore what had happened last night, figuring that they – or she at least – could try to behave more like the civilised adults they were.

He nodded stiffly in greeting, but studiously avoided her gaze, trudging past her without saying a word.

"I found something that might lead us somewhere," she called out, but he'd already retreated into his room.

A minute later, she heard the faints sounds of the shower running, and sank down on the sofa heavily.

What would it take to navigate the tricky waters of one Jack O'Neill?

* * *

A sound in the darkness made her sit up in bed as sudden fear gripped her chest.

It was a reminder of the night in Payner's guest lodge when fire had started to engulf the property.

Sam grabbed her weapon and crept to the window, only to see the balcony door swing open. O'Neill walked through a second later and leaned against the low porch rail, a beer bottle in his hand. Then he moved down the beach and stopped where the waves ran up to his ankles.

The relief of seeing him there was almost painful.

Against her better judgement, Sam walked out to join him, relishing the warmth of the sand and the sudden cold of the water that came a few seconds later. But the beauty of the clear night could not mask the underlying tension that still simmered between them.

She closed her eyes briefly as the first blast of the cold sea wind sucked her breath out of her.

"I'm sorr—"

"There's something you –"

They stopped awkwardly, having spoken at the same time.

"Go ahead," O'Neill gestured to her.

She wasn't going to refuse, not when he gave her the opening to put things back on track again after that impulsive disappearing act she'd pulled on him which could only have gotten him livid.

"Well, since you're awake, I guess you want to know what happened earlier at Slate's office," she began, only to be interrupted by him.

"Look, Carter, I...about earlier…do you think could we put this aside for a minute?"

Puzzlement creased her features but there was something in his earnest tone that made her pause in breathless anticipation.

It was all that she was probably going to get from him anyway. A conciliatory statement that was not quite an apology. She rushed to reassure him, suddenly wanting to forget the last night too. "Don't worry about it, I've already put it aside. What I found this afternoon in Slate's office was actually–"

She stopped at his look of confusion that had melted into an expression of dawning understanding.

"That wasn't what I meant, Carter," he said quietly.

She took a steadying breath, finding the air suddenly heavy in her lungs.

"I'm sorry about last night," he continued and sighed heavily, looking out into the shimmering waves lit by the moonlight. "It had nothing to do with you and what I said was…uncalled for."

"You were right, O'Neill," Sam said softly. "It's none of my business, and it can – _should_ – stay that way."

In response, he wordlessly drew out his wallet and pulled out two old, creased photos that had seen better days, holding them out to her.

"Sara and Charlie."

_Sara _and_ Charlie_…the two names that Tom Reese had casually dropped in that particular conversation. The two mysterious names that Janet Frasier had also mentioned. To her, they had been faceless entities, perhaps a sister, or his parents, or his wife and son…

Sam forgot to breathe, suddenly unsure of her footing in new emotional ground they seemed to be treading. She took the photos from him with tentative hands, feeling like she was trespassing forbidden boundaries despite the access he was granting her.

It was as though he'd known her for a long time, and she was still playing catching up.

"Your…wife and…son?" She hazarded a guess, tracing a finger lightly over the creases that had made white marks over their faded faces.

"My ex-wife."

He hadn't mentioned Charlie. Had Sara fought for sole custody of their son? And won?

Losing a family member had fractured her own family, estranged her brother and father, leaving all of them adrift in a bottomless well of pain and unresolved resentment. She understood the nature of that kind of loss, nodding with sympathy.

"They left?" She ventured hesitantly, remembering how her questions had led to a very different outcome that night.

He was now staring at blackness that was the sea, lost in his own thoughts. It was impossible for her to see his face. From his profile, she thought that he was smiling sardonically.

"In a manner of speaking. Charlie…died when he shot himself with my service weapon. Sara left for good not too long after that. I think you probably can guess why. It's...it's just not something I deal with easily."

A wave of unimaginable horror washed over her at the magnitude of his loss, leaving deep sorrow etched in her own beating heart. "When did this happen?"

Finally O'Neill turned to her, his face seemingly carved out of stone. "Some months ago."

"Oh god."

What man could live through such a tragedy and still stay sane? How had he coped? Had he cried when Charlie died? When they lowered his body into the grave? When Sara wept, had he wept with her, grieved with her?

What she had mistaken for tear tracks down his sculpted cheeks had merely been the pale moonlight's reflection on the lines on his face.

There was no hesitation when, in the next second, she stepped towards him and looped her arms around his neck, bringing their bodies tightly together. A moment later, she felt his trembling arms encircle her waist, clinging to her as hard as she did to him.

They stood that way for a long time, curled into each other as the waves beat a rhythmic elegy against their feet.

When Sam pulled back, she found him looking at her with an intensity that made her shiver.

"Thank you," he murmured in a low voice, then placed a chaste kiss on her lips in gratitude, not releasing his hands from her waist.

She ran her fingers slowly down his cheek then threw all caution to the wind, meeting his lips in a timid but lingering kiss that sent her into an unexpected haze of spiralling passion.

He smelt like pine, musk and the brine of the sea, tasting like the vestiges of the beer he'd drunk and of something unidentifiable that was uniquely Jack O'Neill.

She felt his surprise, then his surrender, delighting in his ardent, practiced response and his insistent caresses that seared her lips.

He responded slowly at first, then lazily slid his tongue across her lower lip. Her own snaked out, tasting him.

They needed more. Wanted more.

The kiss ignited, driven by the weeks of relentless pursuit and retreat, shattering the underlying tension that had existed between them from the very beginning.

Propelled by a multitude of emotions that each hadn't quite dared to voice yet, they devoured each other's mouths, claiming each other fiercely, brought to a place where nothing existed but them.

A screaming voice in her head caused her to pull away from him again in panicked embarrassment, knowing that she'd taken advantage of a weak moment between the both of them to satisfy a craving that she thought only he could provide.

"Look, O'Neill, I…I'm normally not like this," She paused, clearly hesitant to say what she wanted to say. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have…"

A firm hand clamped tight onto her upper arm when she tried to walk past him, pulling her roughly back into his embrace. What she saw now in his face took her breath away. The despairing hopelessness that had until then clouded his dark eyes had been replaced by a predatory glint, his handsome face now harsh with lust, longing and desire.

The air between them grew thick with tension, as thick as the heavy fog that rolled in from the sea on a misty winter's day.

"No, you shouldn't," he told her roughly, his hand still holding her arm in a tight grip.

"O'Neill-"

"My name is Jack," he growled and crushed his lips to hers. "Say it."

She echoed him, a whisper against his cheek.

Long-denied attraction pushed them into each other's arms, escalating desire fusing their lips together.

She met his searching hands eagerly with heated touches of her own, relishing the roughness of the day-old stubble that lined his face when it brushed her neck. Perhaps this just some sexual relief and comfort that they both needed. Whatever it was, it felt like a natural progression and a long desired outcome after the past few frustrating weeks of unfulfilled tension.

She moaned his name – _Jack_ – when he shifted his lips to her neck, trailing the tip of his questing tongue down to where neck met shoulder, her sensitive skin scraped by his nibbling teeth.

He groaned his approval when her seeking hands brushed the growing bulge in his pants.

They barely made it through the balcony door and into her room, half-heartedly dusting their feet off before he was tugging hard on her sleep pants and fumbling with the double-knotted drawstring closure. Growling in impatience, she pulled off her own T-shirt then tugged his over his head. Her hands flew to undo the button-and-zip closure of his pants.

His hoarse laugh at her eagerness was a harshly-expelled breath against the side of her neck, sending tendrils of arousal down her spine.

"God, you're hot," he managed to tell her in between pants, all thoughts leaving his brain when her hands wandered down his pants. She giggled at his blunt, honest assessment, then found the shape of his erection and squeezed him through his briefs, running a single finger down its length to the tip.

He jerked against her hard, eliciting a sly grin from her. She added a second finger to her slow strokes, making him groan in need.

His mouth fell to a breast, his tongue circling the erect tip before his lips closed over it.

Sam threw her head back, granting him easy access, then watched him as he moved to lavish all his attention on her other breast.

The feel of her nails raking down his back caused his mouth to release her the tip of her breast in a sharp groan. He bucked against her and she took the opportunity to grab his hardness.

Her first stroke made him moan through gritted teeth. The second made him jerk wildly into her waiting hand.

"Sam…stop…too fast…"

With immense concentration, Jack lifted her hand off him and pushed her back against the wall hard. Having undone her pants, he now knelt before her, pulling them slowly down her legs. His lips traced the fabric's journey downwards then moved right back up, stopping at her centre.

He dipped two fingers down the waistband of her plain cotton underwear, relishing her loud gasp as he circled her sensitive flesh slowly.

He found her wet, hot and ready. It damn near killed him.

But for Sam, it was infuriatingly _slow_.

_He_ was infuriating slow when all she wanted was a heady descent into oblivion.

She hauled him up without warning and kissed him hard, pushing him into the centre of the bed. "We'll have time for that later."

"Sam…I…-" He panted her name, thrilled by her reaction to his caresses, giving himself to her kiss. But before his brain went to mush, he needed to say it...she needed to know. "Sam, no…stop, stop, please."

"Talk later," she insisted, her fingers busy at his crotch.

He shivered and gasped. Relief, pleasure, and painful anticipation. Her excitement was feeding his own and he felt his head whirring and heavy from her kisses.

Jack gently wrested her fingers away before he lost all coherent thought. Her hands suddenly left his back and her mouth disconnected from him, making him feel bereft.

Carter – no, _Sam, _he corrected himself, was dishevelled and tousled, her lips swollen and red and her eyes glazed over. Shit, she looked like she was ready for…he gritted his teeth, stamping down the urge to continue his ministrations.

She had already sat up and was already trying to get dressed, hiding her face from him. "O'Neill, it's fine, I get your point," she said curtly.

"No! That's not what I meant!" He didn't want her to think that he was rejecting her advances when he'd in fact, wanted them. Wanted more.

"So what do you want?" Barely-concealed hurt laced her voice.

"You," he told her bluntly, relishing the flush that appeared on her skin. God, what did he want? He wanted his lips against her skin, her mouth on his…he wanted all of her.

He wanted tonight, tomorrow…the guarantee of every day and every night.

"Doesn't look like it."

She hadn't kicked his ass out yet, so he figured that had to be a good sign. Jack took a deep breath. "Sam, believe me, I want this just as much. But…I-" he trailed off, reluctant say what he thought.

How could he tell her that she was his every dream come true? Gorgeous, brilliant, sexy, so fucking capable…and way, way above and beyond his league. Would she believe him…believe someone who had very nearly taken her out a month ago?

That moment of self-doubt assailed him. He wondered for a split second if it were even possible to feel this way so soon after his divorce and his son's death, unable to shake the lingering guilt of jumping into bed with someone he'd barely known for a few weeks. Yet he couldn't deny the apparent connection, the chemistry that had slowly but surely developed between them over those intense days.

"But what?" She asked impatiently.

"But this isn't a one-night thing for me," he warned, then clarified in a softer tone. "I don't do one-night stands."

Jack sat up and moved to encircle her loosely in his arms, leaning his forehead gently against hers, their foreplay forgotten for a while. "I don't know about you, but this thing between us…it's not just a fling for me."

He was unprepared for the brilliant smile that crossed her face and the tightening of her arms around his back.

"I know. Me too. But talk later," she whispered against his chest, pushing him back onto the bed and straddled him, her hands drawing his briefs down.

He lost all coherent thought when her fingers drew light strokes down his length, then gasped and swore hard when they encircled his entire width and pulled the soft flesh over its tip.

It was game on again. They were kissing, touching, back to where they'd left off.

She opened her legs for him and pressed hard against him, feeling his thighs tensing and his hardness against her.

"Now, Jack," she growled.

No more preliminaries. He understood.

Jack thrust hard into her wetness, then withdrew until only the tip of him stayed in her, setting a steady rhythm that she caught onto quickly. With his hands on her hips, he guided her descent, changing the angle of his strokes according to her moans of approval.

She tightened her calves around his sides and drew him closer.

He felt impossibly good within her.

The world turned on its edges.

Now he was taking first seat, not losing the previous rhythm they'd both set.

His length rubbing against her internal ridges sent her into shivers of ecstasy. Sam arched into his thrusts, dragging his lips down hard to meet hers in a kiss that set them both ablaze. She moved to meet his rhythm, and ground herself against his pelvis each time he thrust deep within her.

Their wordless sounds of steadily increasing pleasure echoed through the little cottage.

Then he slowed a bit, but she refused, shifting her hands to his hips to keep him moving.

It was all too much…he was going to blow if he didn't stop.

"God...Carter… Sam," he groaned in need, then pushed himself away from her kiss. "I can't…"

"You can." She placed a light kiss on his lips and flipped him over again with surprising strength. "I'll help you."

Jack felt the world tilt and the easing of some pressure in his groin. It cleared the sensual fog in his head, at least sufficiently to shift for her as she adjusted herself atop him.

The friction he felt as she slipped onto him was excruciatingly pleasurable, nearly bringing him to the brink of release again.

But she rode him agonisingly slowly, raising herself on her shins until he was nearly out of her then slamming back down on him, building on the same rhythm that they had momentarily lost earlier.

She met his half-lidded gaze, watching him watch her, his eyes raking her body in a way that made her cheeks flame.

Then he wet his thumb with his finger and reached between them in slow circles, relishing her ragged moan of delight when he increased the pressure against her swollen flesh. The other hand circled her heavy breast, his thumb pressing, rolling her nipple into near-painful hardness.

It took her less than a minute to fall into oblivion. He put his hand to the back of her head and drew her down to meet his lips. With wordless, lengthy moans, she cried her ecstasy into his mouth while his fingers changed their rhythm, moving gently over her. Then he drew her shuddering form close to his chest, still sheathed in her heat, feeling her contractions slow and flutter around him.

Her gaze was unfocused and hazy when she looked up at him, having only just realised that he was still hard and desperately throbbing in her.

"You're so damn beautiful, Sam," he murmured into her ear, hearing her answering warm chuckle and seeing the flush of her cheeks before he gently eased her off him.

Smiling slightly at her puzzled look, he got her to roll over and lie on her front with her hips tilted upwards. Covering his body over hers, he kissed her ears, her neck and her smooth shoulders, before slipping his hand between her thighs. A long finger drew a lazy path down her centre, brushing her throbbing flesh, making her moan in pleasure.

Sam spread her legs wider for him, eagerly needing the entire length and girth of him inside her once more.

"Not yet," he whispered and smiled against her neck. He moved his lips down her back, tracing the slight ridge of her spine. His tongue followed the same path his lips had taken, the rapidly cooling wetness on her back causing delicious gooseflesh to appear on her arms. "Let's make this last."

Only god knew what it must be costing him.

Languid and deliciously limp after her orgasm, she closed her eyes and relished every touch, every caress that he made. Feeling his large hands covering her hips, she raised them slightly while keeping her pelvis down against the mattress.

He finally pressed into her again, sheathing himself to the core. Then he moved and was slamming into her hard, drawing her strangled screams as his heavy rhythmic movements forced her sensitive skin over and over again against the roughness of the mattress sheets, creating a delicious friction that soon curled into a tightening ball of sensation deep in her pelvis.

Her harsh, short breaths filled the room as she convulsed and contracted around him again; she grabbed the sheets and held on, helpless against the rolling waves of pleasure that wracked her frame. He increased the speed of his thrusts, then stilled for a second before stroking in and out again twice more. He came hard in her, groaning his release into her neck, his laboured pants matching hers.

After an indeterminate amount of time, she stirred, prompting him to roll off her gently. With unsteady hands, she mustered enough strength just to drag the quilt over their bodies.

They fell into dreamless oblivion still clutching each other.


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter 20**

**Virginia Coast  
5 October 1995**

They had slept half the day away, having woken up a few hours after their first tryst to begin another fevered session. The sun was starting to dip below the horizon before they were ready to get out of bed.

He loved looking at her as she woke up the second time, even more so when the remembrance of their previous night together seemed to infuse a deeper blue into those incredible eyes. Like her, he suspected that they both didn't quite know what they were doing last night apart from physically resolving that case of need and the niggling tension that had stood between them, in spite of his fervent vow about not having one-night stands. But it was enough for him, for now at least, not knowing what exactly they were after a night of intense sex.

Because it had felt…sure…certain…and surprisingly right between them.

He hoped to whatever higher power out there that she felt similarly. And while he wasn't privy to the naïve idea that sex solved everything, he knew he still owed her some explanations that would go a long way to help her understand his erratic behaviour that night.

A flash of blue made him catch his breath.

"Mornin', beautiful," Jack teased and gestured to the window where the orange-purple light of dusk shone through, running a finger down her bare shoulder in a sensual greeting that had her shivering in delight.

"Mornin', handsome," she shot back affectionately and planted a swift kiss on his lips.

The answering smile on his face was breathtaking and mesmerising, giving her a glimpse of how different Jack O'Neill could have been before his son's untimely death.

"You do realise that it's nearly 1800?"

"I must have forgotten. Someone kept me busy," Sam told him wryly, smoothing his wayward hair even though she knew it wouldn't stay down. "Not that I was complaining, mind you."

He waggled a finger at her. "Time to surface. It's called dinner."

She rolled lazily into his arms again, then froze. "Is that-?"

He grimaced in slight embarrassment. "It's my sidearm, I swear."

The room was suddenly filled with her peals of laughter. "I thought you wanted to eat."

"I'm having a hard time deciding now," he told her seriously, provoking more laughter from her.

The moment turned solemn when her mirth died. Free of the tension that had plagued them prior, she wondered just when this man had become so precious to her. So unlike Jonas Hansen, came the unbidden thought in her mind, so unlike Jacob Carter.

"I'm sorry about Charlie," she told him quietly. "No one should outlive their child."

His confession to her late last night came flooding back. It gave him pause, then made him move out of her arms and roll over onto his back to face the ceiling, staying silent for a long time. She followed and curled into his side, surprising him with the unspoken support when he assumed that she'd be repulsed by his revelations.

"Yeah, me too," Jack said with a measure of finality.

"And maybe," she hesitated to continue, fearing her words were too presumptuous. "Maybe in time, you'll be able to live with yourself, because it was an accident."

He gave her a sad smile and a non-committal shrug.

"We'll go see Kerry tomorrow," he told her, switching the topic so abruptly that the name sounded unfamiliar for a second.

Then it hit her.

Kerry Johnson. The pendant that she'd found. Her impromptu research in the local library.

All of which had been momentarily forgotten in their bedroom pursuits.

Sam looked unsure for a beat, when nodded. His gaze shifted to hers knowingly.

"I haven't forgotten what you asked earlier, Carter," Jack sighed, talking more easily than she had expected, their newfound intimacy having perhaps given him renewed courage to confront his demons. "Long before Sara, Kerry was the one who got me on the path that led to the Air Force."

She knew better than to interrupt his words, knowing he'd go on if he wished to.

"I was away a lot in the beginning. It was hard for her," he snorted, a grimace of remembrance lining his rugged face. "Story of my life. So, one day, she upped and went. I suppose you could say that she was the one who got away."

"So she's in Washington?"

"Moved to D.C. Last I heard from a mutual friend, she's with the CIA."

The ghosts of an ex-girlfriend, an ex-wife and a recently-dead son…she was starting to realise how hard it must have been for him when it all converged in Tom Reese's house.

Finally, he turned to face her again, gently fingering the tendrils of her short hair that curled around her cheek.

"Well, so now you know," he told her tersely.

She smiled and lightly brushed his sculpted cheeks with her lips, feeling him relax, thanking him wordlessly for doing the exact opposite of what he was least inclined to do.

She also knew that it would take quite an effort to get him back to where he needed to be. But it hadn't taken too long to distract him the second time and she was confident it could happen again.

Her look turned sly. "You know, I could make it worth your while, if you can forget dinner for a bit," she suggested, trailing her hands down to a place that made his breath hitch delightfully.

* * *

"Look at this."

Jack looked up from where he sat on the couch in the chalet's small living area.

Dinner – which they ended up eating only at 2200 because they had both been physically insatiable – was like the night before under the stars out on the beach, sans the tension and the awkwardness.

Then he'd tried something stupid. He'd grabbed her hand impulsively and walked to the part of the shore where the tide came in. Enjoying the look of confusion on her face that had melted into part-desire and part-curiosity, he'd enfolded her in his arms as they swayed to the tune only they heard in their heads.

He'd taken her good-natured ribbing about his hidden romantic nature, but not before teasing her back about what a cheap date she could be. It hadn't taken her too long to admit it – that dinner, dancing were the essentials in her book of seduction – and that he'd done it right without realising it.

Only when they had tired of the sand sticking to their legs did they return to the cottage, where he sat waiting for her to wash her hands and feet.

Carter – Sam – he corrected himself again sheepishly, had placed a small object in his hand, then sat next to him.

"I had forgotten all about it because…well…you know," she finished rather lamely and gestured with an open hand, grinning and flushing in remembrance of what had transpired between them in those hours.

He smirked at her modesty, then looked at the badge, turning it over his hand, feeling its pointed edges and curved sides.

"What's this?"

"Medusa," Sam murmured. "The only thing that I found in Slate's office."

"Nothing else?"

"No," she sighed in frustration. "Not even a single sheet of paper that might lead somewhere. Only this. Rather than assuming Slate had a weakness for Greek mythology, I decided to look this up in some local libraries."

"Resourceful, Carter," Jack said before he could help himself. "So what did you find?"

Her eyes lit in excitement, a look that he'd come to recognise in the intervening hours before dinner.

"What do you know of Greek mythology? Or more specifically, Medusa, or the Gorgons?"

"That it's all Greek to me?" He tried to joke, eliciting a roll of her eyes and a snort of amusement. "Seriously, any woman with snakes as her hair is dangerous. Only took a guy with a mirror to kill her. Doesn't that say something about hair-dos these days?"

She grinned at his lame attempt to make her laugh, then continued the explanation, "It's a bit more than that. Look, bear with me. I'm no archaeologist or historian and I'm not sure where this is leading but it might be useful later. A Gorgon could be considered what you might term a _femme fatale_ – terrifying female creatures with the power to ensnare and kill. Typically, they are females with hair made of venomous snakes."

"So I'm guessing Medusa's one of them?"

"She's only one of those who wasn't immortal, but she's the most famous one. And yes, she's a Gorgon, whom Perseus, a hero in Greek mythology, was sent to kill," Sam clarified. "Perseus beheaded her by using the reflective surface of a glass or mirror so that he wouldn't turn to stone. But the story doesn't end there. Some sources claim that he buried her head somewhere in Argos and others – the more interesting ones – say that he actually gave it to Athena, who then mounted it on a mirrored shield called Aegis and gave it to Zeus."

"OK," Jack said slowly. "How would that help us?"

She deflated visibly as she sighed. "I'm not too sure still. Although it did get me very excited the other day at the library because I finally thought it would have led us somewhere."

"What more did you find out?"

"Medusa was actually pregnant at the time of her death. When Perseus took her head, a winged-horse and a giant came from her body."

"Somehow I fail to see how this really relates to any conspiracy going on in the higher rungs of the military relating to the Stargate," he told her dryly, seeing her nod in wry agreement.

She sat up straighter, suddenly remembering the various academic interpretations that she had come across.

"But Medusa's severed head however, later became a symbol for many things. One of them, in ancient times, became the Aegis, that shield on which the Gorgoneion head was mounted. Later it became a pendant worn as an amulet, infused with the protective power of the deities. Sounds familiar?"

"Which would explain the pendant. It's a replica of the Aegis," he mused, and turned it upwards to the light. It glinted burnished gold in the cottage's living room lamp, large enough to fit half his palm width. He briefly wondered if Slate merely had a fascination with ancient Greece, knowing that he needed to consider all the possibilities of its presence in the abandoned office. Cautiously, he discarded the idea; its mysteries were too arcane, too esoteric for someone like Slate to be drawn to it.

"So the question then, would be, why would Slate need its protection?" She looked at him in bafflement for a moment.

"I guess that's what we're going to find out," he replied quietly.

"Yeah," she sighed and nodded in agreement, already mourning the loss of their private, idyllic haven. The deserted stretch of Virginia Coast now held memories of a different sort and she felt loath to leave the place where it seemed the walls had fallen between Jack and her. If it was here that the both of them had found something new, then why did it feel as though leaving the place was akin to abandoning this precious, budding _thing_ between them?

Jack looked at her, grinned at her rueful expression and tapped her knee playfully. "There's still tonight, you know. Who needs sleep anyway?"

* * *

**Washington D.C.  
6 October 1995 **

It was impossible to ignore the bold print.

_IMMINENT ALIEN INVASION OF EARTH: OUR EXPERT REVEALS ALL_

Jack frowned when he saw the headlines of the daily newspaper at the petrol kiosk counter while paying for the fuel. Grabbing it, he dug around for extra change and handed it off to the indifferent, gum-chewing clerk at the counter.

"Our best-selling one today," the girl pointed out unnecessarily, causing Jack to look up at her. Probably a student handling a part-time job. "That's the last paper you're taking."

He nodded in response and tried a slight smile which came out as a scowl, wishing for a moment that she hadn't felt that need to point out the obvious.

Sam was waiting in the car nursing a hot coffee, her cap pulled low over her head.

He opened the door, climbed in and tossed the papers to her.

"Thought you might want to mock the bad science in it," he told her, earning himself a bright smile of mirth.

She held it up, perusing the page as he manoeuvred the car towards the city.

_We have cause to believe that what the US Government has claimed to be a bout of solar flare activity, is in fact, an indication of an imminent alien invasion of Earth._

_In this exclusive interview, eminent astrophysicist Dr. Rodney McKay gives his opinion on the recent events that had affected cities in the Northern hemisphere…_

"God," she groaned aloud. "It's McKay. I should have known."

Jack risked a sideways glance at her. "Friend of yours?"

She closed her eyes briefly then shook her head at the attention-grabbing headlines.

"Rodney Mckay, PhD., is famous, or rather, infamous, in the astrophysics community for his arrogance, frequently believing himself the most intelligent scientist in every organisation that he's ever he worked in. I've met him once at a conference," she paused in chagrin. "Two minutes into the reception, he asked me out on a date, then called me a dumb blonde in the same sentence."

He deliberately looked her over and grinned at her discomfiting confession. "Dumb blonde, eh? So this guy's a total doofus of an egghead?"

"Unfortunately, he's also a pretty talented one. Well, most of the time," she admitted grudgingly. "He just lords it over everyone when he gets things right."

"Why would they get some professor like him to give an interview in the papers?"

"McKay's not an academic, despite what it looks like. He's a high-tech industrialist, a dot-com millionaire who has developed space surveillance technology that all aeronautical companies are using. He's famous and influential enough to have some press contacts who would willingly give him media coverage. And as far as I know, his research and development team is actually doing groundbreaking research on wormholes and inter-universe bridges but thus far, it has remained theoretical. But knowing the deep pockets of his company, it won't for long."

"You've been following what he does," he told her with a knowing look.

"Well, yeah," she confessed sheepishly, then rushed to clarify, "but just for the science." She read the rest of the article, the frown of her face carving deep lines into her forehead she reached the end of it. Her exclamation of surprise and outraged shock emerged from her lips as a cross between a squeak and a grunt. "Son of a bitch, he found it. He actually found it!"

He caught her staring at nothing in particular after that excited shriek, now deep in pensive – or scientific – thought and prodded, "Found what?"

"Can you remember that I told you some time ago that my research team had actually collected some data on interstellar dust and the luminous emittance showing levels that had been spiking through the charts?"

Vaguely, he remembered in consternation. But not quite all of the scientific details that he'd instinctively tried to shut out.

"The one about the cosmic dust that's…er…found here, above Earth?" He asked hesitantly.

"That's it," she nodded in agreement. "What McKay's actually talking about here is essentially the same thing. The technology his company developed is actually sensitive enough to collect some specimens of the atmospheric residual matter because it was actually present in slight larger quantities. According to this, preliminary analysis suggests the presence of a mix of an unknown element and scorched energy deposits that are accompanying the radiation particles as they are hurled through space. Thus explaining the power outages. Do you know the best part? He's theorising here that it's the same kind of energy matter lingering in the atmosphere that the classified Roswell reports talked about and wouldn't reveal his sources."

"Do you believe him?"

"You know, I'd normally think it's a load of trash," she began, then shook her head, "but then I discovered there was something – some alien device – called the Stargate buried deep under a mountain that had been lost for thousands of years. It's something beyond my wildest imagination. Jack, as ludicrous as this might sound, I think this has just confirmed that those flare events really aren't really flare events. The problem is, what are they then?"

* * *

**Kerry Johnson's Residence  
Washington D.C.  
6 October 1995 **

The harsh sound of the doorbell jolted her out of a light doze in the bathtub. Quickly showering off the soap suds that clung to her body, she threw on a terry bathrobe and hurried to the front door.

Jack O'Neill stood there, a tall blond woman at his side.

For a moment, she stood frozen, her hand on the doorknob, the other unconsciously moving to her chest in a protective gesture.

He looked good, she realised, looking him once over critically. More than good, in fact. His previously-sandy hair had turned a darker, velvety brown, and was still military short, but his face had aged slightly, etched with deep dimples, and his eyes hadn't lost their compelling intensity as he looked at her.

When she walked out on Jack all those years ago, she had left in blazing, self-righteous anger, convinced that he wouldn't have been able to commit both to her and his career as an officer steadily climbing the ranks. The years had passed with her only knowing that he'd gotten married to a woman called Sara and even had a child with her. Several mutual friends had fed her the information that she'd craved when she felt unable to let go of their history together. Eventually, they stopped when other men had appeared in her life.

Those hadn't stayed too long either, often falling short when compared to him.

Kerry now realised, that in many ways, she had been foolish. A short but strong wave of intense regret washed over her.

The man who stood in front of her now was in the prime of his life, emanating an irresistible vitality despite looking like he'd seen and done too much.

"Kerry," he was the first to speak, and she clenched her teeth at sound of his voice.

"Jack," she greeted, hoping her own voice wasn't too shaky. "What can I do for you?"

He grimaced in consternation, thinking that this was getting old. Getting his ass shot at, looking up long-lost acquaintances and an ex-girlfriend to boot, always having to explain that he needed their help while not answering their curious questions…it was at best, an awkward situation he'd pretty much rather avoid.

"Kerry, this is Samantha Carter," Jack said, looking at the two women greeting each other cautiously with a handshake, "and we need your help."

"Come in."

She ushered them in and closed the door behind them, leading them to the small sitting room couch that still had some of her work files on them.

"Sorry, I wasn't expecting company," she said and hurriedly cleared them away. "Please, I'll be out in a minute."

Without waiting for their reactions, she swept into her room, trying to calm her racing heart. Why were they here? Why would he look her up after all these years? There must be something that they clearly needed from her, otherwise, she'd sworn that her path and Jack's wouldn't cross in any way. She had after all, made sure of that long ago.

It was too late for regrets.

Kerry had regained a modicum of composure by the time she finished dressing. Observing Jack and the woman called Samantha Carter sitting on the couch talking in low tones, the camaraderie between them evident, she wondered what exactly the nature of their relationship was before stopping her train of thought.

It had nothing to do with her, especially not when she had given up her right to Jack O'Neill all those years ago, she told herself as she walked into the living room.

Their heads snapped up in a synchronised movement when they heard her approach.

She took a seat opposite them, waiting.

"Kerry," Jack began rather uncomfortably, "I'm just going to cut to the chase. We…" he said, glancing at the blond woman next to him who gave him a small smile, "we need your help. Colin Payner gave us your address and said that...you would be able to do more than he could."

"Colin Payner?" She repeated in disbelief. "How did…I mean…?"

He was suitably apologetic. "I can't explain too much, Kerry. But believe me when I say it's more for your own good than ours. We'll be needing classified information that the CIA has about several people."

She exhaled sharply. So that was what he needed from her. But Colin had been a dear friend, and if he had recognised that Jack was genuinely in need of help, then perhaps it wouldn't be too reckless to listen to what he had to say.

"You met Colin? How's he doing? Rosie?"

His eyes were filled with regret when he looked at her. "They're both dead. I'm sorry."

The news made her slump bonelessly into the welcoming confines of her seat. It was a while before she could speak, only dimly aware of the remorseful looks on both their faces. "Was it an acc…how did it happen?"

"We have cause to believe that it wasn't an accident," the blond woman spoke up for the first time, her blue gaze faraway. "There was a fire in their house and by the time we got to them, it was too late."

Kerry felt suddenly exposed in her grief, wanting some time alone to get over that awful statement that only made the situation worse.

Pulling herself together as best as she could, she straightened her shoulders and asked, "Were you there when it happened?"

She caught the exchange between the both of them, seeing the brief flash of sadness that crossed Samantha Carter's face.

"Yeah," Jack finally said quietly.

Why prolong the inevitable? They had come to her for information, not to deliver the incidental news of Colin's and Rosie's untimely deaths. She would grieve in private, much later. Alone and away from the prying eyes of strangers.

Heaving a sigh, she asked, "So what was it that you needed?"


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter 21**

**Area 51, Underground Facility  
South Nevada  
5 October 1995**

Built thirty stories under the earth, a complex whose existence very few knew about housed the dramatic remains of what military scientists posited to be alien remains and parts of their spacecrafts that had shattered beyond reconstructive efforts.

The upper echelons of the organisation had determined that almost all of their meetings were to be held on site where the carefully-embalmed, glass-encased inhabitants provided visually dramatic reminders of the urgent need to prioritise Earth's security above everything else.

Thomas Baker, like many others in the elite, exclusive group who called the shots in national security, never tired of the glimpse into an alien world that must exist somewhere beyond humanity's imaginings. Next to him, a slightly agitated Peter Vandenburg paced the length of the room.

A familiar voice boomed above the entourage, interrupting their musings, unmistakable in its controlled fury.

"General Baker, General Vandenburg, you'll forgive me if I don't say it's good to see the both of you again."

Baker and Vandenburg stood up slowly as Senator William Curtis walked into the secure briefing room, calmly buttoning his uniform jacket. It was thought that Curtis's bark was worse than his bite, until one realised he pulled enough political strings in the puppet house to make sure what he said would materialise.

Being at the receiving end of Curtis's tirade was a forgone outcome, Vandenburg thought, particularly since the mission that Curtis ordered had gone awry.

"It was unexpected, Sir," Baker replied evenly. "But it's not the end."

"Your merry men of hired help are not exactly living up to expectations right now," Curtis spat. "You promised that O'Neill and Carter would be taken care of swiftly after they disappeared from Colorado Springs."

Vandenburg cut in. "With due respect Sir, we've the resources to –"

"All the resources wouldn't help a whit had you not sent the most incompetent fools to finish this simple job."

Baker tried his best to pacify the irate man. "Senator, I assure you th –"

"Your assurances carry little weight, Generals. We sent O'Neill to take care of Carter. Now they're both missing, together, and declared enemies of the state. You've sent more people after them and they're mostly all dead! How could a single man leave so many damn bodies in his wake?"

"O'Neill was the best black-ops soldier that we had. It was clearly a gamble we took, and lost."

Baker watched Curtis storm his way to the exhibits, relaxing only after he caught sight of the specimens. Curtis paced a little then swung around to face Baker.

"So where the hell are they now?"

"We suspect that the tracking device implanted in O'Neill's laptop for his original mission had been discovered and taken out. They were last seen in Richmond and we think Carter was injured quite badly. They couldn't have gone very far. And even if they are a step ahead, we did manage to get a trace each time," Baker said, looking at the Senator's dishevelled appearance.

Curtis glared at Baker's scrutiny. "Speed that damn thing up, Baker. Do everything to get back on their tails," he growled in impatience. "What about the other issue?"

"And the dealings with the Israeli armament groups have stalled, according to our bridge agent," Vandenburg said. "The funds arrived a day late and now our suppliers are demanding an extra charge for that delay. The point is, Senator, there are bigger things you need to think about than two soldiers who have gone AWOL.

"We're talking about two people on the run carrying state secrets, one of whom is possibly holding the key to opening Pandora's box, Generals," Curtis hissed. "And if you think we should let it go in light of what's happening, then I think you're sorely mistaken. There's too much to lose here, too much at stake. There is a reason why the Roswell files and the Kamchatka mystery stay as fabrications of the media. The public relations office and diplomatic team are having a hell of a time with the top brass in the Chinese government trying to convince them that solar flares were indeed occurring when they apparently weren't."

"Senator, our scientists are still working on finding a more plausible explanation for the occurrence of the power outages," Vandenburg said. It was why they needed Samantha Carter alive, he thought. But sending those men to retrieve her but not kill her without the knowledge or approval of the Senator was something that ended badly. Carter had escaped, he suspected, thanks to O'Neill's interfering ways.

"I look forward to reading about it, Vandenburg," Curtis said evenly.

"Yes, Sir."

"Might I remind you, Generals, if there are any two people who can cause trouble, it would be O'Neill and Carter," Curtis said as his parting reply. "Finish your job or you wouldn't have one at all."

* * *

**Kerry Johnson's residence  
Washington D.C.  
6 October 1995 **

It had begun to rain, Kerry noticed idly with a glance out of the apartment window. A heavy sort of rain that was atypical of the rapidly cooling October weather where showers tended to be lighter and misty.

Jack was talking, explaining their situation with as few details as possible, how they had ended up contacting Colin, how he'd offered them a place to stay and how the fire had raged in his property in the middle of the night. But he had made no mention yet of what exactly he and Samantha Carter wanted.

She hadn't asked anything of his personal life in the last decade. He hadn't offered up any information that even hinted at it. But who was she to ask anything of him when she had walked out on him so long ago?

The drinks she'd offered them sat on the table untouched.

She interrupted him smoothly. "Jack, I think I get the idea. Now tell me what you're looking for."

Finally, he reached out for the bottle and took a sip of the beer she'd given him, closing his eyes briefly as he swallowed.

Guinness. That hadn't changed.

"I'm going to list some names. Tell me if they sound familiar to you."

_Peter Vandenburg_

_Thomas Baker_

_William Curtis_

_Winston Orville West_

_Adrian Lowen_

_Richard Tomasson_

_Robert Slate_

_Tommy Creech_

_Derek Wallace_

_Lionel Tennyson_

Kerry closed her eyes briefly when she heard the names, feeling each one that he spoke like a knife piercing her chest. Not only were they familiar, she'd read them, spoken them out loud so often that they were seared in her memory. She couldn't have forgotten them even if she wanted to.

And not especially if she thought she knew where he was going with it.

"Yeah, I know them."

She saw Jack and Samantha heave a collective breath of relief.

"Ms. Johnson," Samantha told her politely, "You don't know how grateful I really am to hear this. People have died because of us. I think we owe it to them to get to the bottom of the matter."

"How did Colin and Rosie come into this? What could they have done to warrant this…hideous act? "

"They're collateral damage," Jack responded bluntly. "They was killed because we turned to them. Because Col asked too much. They were innocent."

She hadn't known anything of Col's involvement. It took her a while to gather her emotions. "If Colin sent you to me, then he was right that I would help you with it."

"There's also this," Samantha said and pushed a small badge towards her, merely confirming that they had indeed run into a formidable organisation that had infiltrated many government sectors.

She looked down, wondering if her own career was going to go down the drain because of this very meeting. But she would do anything for Colin and Rosie, when it had been their kindness that helped her find her feet all those decades ago. Even more so if this would help Jack get to the bottom of the matter.

"OK," she agreed. "Give me a minute to get my stuff."

Sam looked at the man sitting next to her in trepidation when she left. "Think this might be it? She seems to know something. I wonder how Colin knew her."

He shrugged and swung an arm around her shoulder, squeezing it once in reassurance. "Anything other than the dead ends we've been chasing so far."

Kerry Johnson returned with some files in her arms and set them down carefully on the coffee table, pulling out several photographs in high contrast monochrome.

They lined the table like a patchwork tablecloth, sewn out of scraps of black and white linen.

"This is Major General Peter Vandenburg." She tapped the photo in the far right corner. "That's Adrian Lowen. Next to him. Thomas Baker. Richard Tomasson. William Curtis."

She listed the names methodically until she had put names to all the faces, then pulled out a stack of papers from another file, setting them down on her lap.

"It began a long time ago. And to understand why things are the way they are now, I'll need to tell you a story," Kerry said, then sighed internally. They were just getting started and it was going to be a long night. "What do you know about Operation Majestic?"

Sam looked up, startled. "Isn't that the code name for the Roswell incident that the US military tried to pass off as a hoax?"

"Except that it wasn't."

Sam was intrigued. "You know more?"

The CIA agent nodded and continued.

"In July 1947, the Roswell Daily Record intercepted a rumour that said the Roswell Army Air Field had released the news of the capture of two flying saucers. The official story went that both had crash-landed on a ranch in a remote region of New Mexico and that the rancher stored the remnants of the crash until such a time when he was able to contact the Sheriff's office. Recovery efforts began almost immediately. The news of unidentified saucers and the prospect of existing alien worlds in the world's media started, from then on, to capture the public imagination. But it was noted as well that public reaction also bordered on near hysteria especially among many religious groups when the news leaked out. To calm the storm, the whole Roswell mission was quickly declared a hoax. That was done easily. The reports were written in a contradictory fashion on purpose. Inconsistencies in witness interviews were inserted to render the whole story unbelievable and more like the product of people's wild imaginations."

"And what's the unofficial version?" Jack asked.

"A secret operation had indeed begun to recover the wreckage for scientific study. But the space ships weren't saucer-shaped, and neither were they reconnaissance crafts that the covert ops team had initially determined," Kerry continued. "There were two different types of ships, each with a completely different build and structure, that appeared to have crashed because of a collision in Earth's upper atmosphere. Their propulsion units had been completely destroyed, and no identifiable parts remained. But the military team was able to recover some metal remnants, as well as the mangled remains of the…beings that were actually piloting the crafts. At present, we think that they've been embalmed and stored in Area 51 for scientific study, in a location deep within the complex that not many know about. But that's not a confirmed fact."

Jack whistled softly and turned to look at Sam, who looked equally shell-shocked at the CIA agent's revelation.

Kerry pushed the files towards them. "The files are here, if you want to read for yourself. The forged records have made it incredibly difficult to differentiate myth from reality, but I think I've pretty much told you what I've untangled from the thousands of classified documents that have found their way to my desk."

"How does this relate to all the names we've asked you about?" The blonde was asking.

She held up a hand and nodded, wordlessly asking them to let her finish. "The recovery operation team became Operation Majestic-12 in the months following the crash, an official but top secret research and development team that reported directly to the then-President Harry S. Truman. The names of the Majestic-12 are in here."

Kerry took out a sheet of paper, turned it a hundred-and-eighty degrees until it faced them.

Jack took it, then held the sheet between the both of them.

_**TOP SECRET/MAJIC -12**_

_SUBJECT: OPERATION MAJESTIC-12 PRELIMINARY BRIEFING_

_DOCUMENT PREPARED 20 OCTOBER, 1948_

_BRIEFING OFFICER: ADM. ROSCOE H. HILLENKOETTER (MJ-1)_

_**EYES ONLY DOCUMENT**COPY ONE OF TWO_

_Upon the authority of President H. S. Truman, Operation Majestic 12 is established on the recommendation of Dr. Vannevar Bush and Secretary James Vincent Forrestal._

_The members of the Majestic-12 group are determined to be as follows:_

_Adm. Roscoe H. Hillenkoetter_

_Dr. Vannevar Bush_

_Secy. James V. Forrestal_

_Gen. Nathan P. Twining_

_Gen. Hoyt S. White_

_Dr. Detlev Bronk_

_Dr. Derek Hunsaker_

_Dr. Charles W. Souers_

_Mr. Gordon Gray_

_Dr. Donald Menzel_

_Gen. Robert M. Montague_

_Dr. Lloyd V. Berkner_

_**EYES ONLY DOCUMENT**COPY ONE OF TWO_

Kerry started speaking again after they'd finished skimming the list of names. "The UFO phenomenon was the only thing the press talked about at the time. All kinds of flying objects were suddenly reported to have been seen in the sky by civilians. Stories also got increasingly ridiculous – UFO attempted landings, alien kidnapping, crashes, hovering over remote areas where few could actually witness anything. You name it, someone's told it. More often than not, these testimonies were nothing of substance where credibility was concerned. But above all, what do you think it meant for national security? Or rather, international security?"

"If we were to assume that the Roswell incident happened as you've said," Sam began, "then Earth is entirely unprepared for any sort of threat if these alien beings are malevolent in nature. Which would either lead to the development of new technology and experimentation to counter this perceived threat, or to a typical cover-up if the development were insufficient for any kind of defence."

Kerry nodded in agreement, feeling an unwilling spark of admiration for the woman's quick thinking. "Don't forget that this happened merely a few years after the Second World War. Public sentiment was starting to turn anti-war, particularly by those who had lived through the horrors of both World Wars. Nevertheless, Earth had to be defended. And by all means necessary," she continued. "Millions of dollars were channelled into nuclear technology as a viable defence for a hypothetical space invasion. Not long after, the Cold War began, and suddenly there were threats of nuclear invasions echoing throughout the Western hemisphere, turning former war allies into enemies."

She paused, wondering how to proceed with her findings.

"That's where I come in," Kerry finally told them. "Not long after I joined the CIA, a high-ranking officer – whom I will not name for obvious reasons – approached me and asked if I could work on uncovering the presence of a secret organisation within the government and the military, whose members had long infiltrated every vital sector dealing with security and scientific research."

"What would this guy stand to gain from this?" Jack questioned sceptically.

"I'm not too sure," she admitted. "But it sounded like an interesting and exclusive project which only a select few knew about including me, this man and supposedly the President. The trails, as I've found, have only led deeper and deeper. Some have turned cold, but mostly, they're part of a big jigsaw that I can't quite piece together fully just yet. Majestic-12, the group that was formed with the aim of research and development, eventually became what you now know as the Aegis at some point in time, an organisation with the aim of protecting Earth by any means possible and I mean by any means possible."

"The R&D team turned renegade protector of Earth?"

Kerry remembered that casual, ironic tone well. "Apparently. As far as we know, the Aegis's mission took on an offensive edge, guarding the Roswell secret with a zealous fire that some would compare to the behaviour exhibited by religious groups. From the original twelve members, the numbers grew to include several directors and deputy directors from law enforcement and all branches of the military comprising mostly high-ranking officers in charge of secure facilities. The Aegis's reach extended to also include several civilian contractors whom they could call on anytime for intelligence or brute strength."

She pointed at the photos that lay on the table. "These are merely a handful of members, but they are very important ones. My superior and I are on the verge of realising just how far down the roots of this organisation actually go. It's one of the most difficult things to uncover, given the elite status of the group."

"Were there any other incidents similar to the Roswell situation that had given the Aegis sufficient impetus to exist?" Sam asked.

"There's a lot of speculation about an incident in 1967 in Kamchatka as well, which the Aegis took to mean another potential invasion of Earth. The reports look remarkably similar to those of the Roswell's eyewitnesses testimonies," Kerry recalled. "But acting on the presumption that Earth is perpetually vulnerable, having been visited by alien species whose intentions will never be figured out? I'd say this is good enough reason for the Aegis's ranks to swell. Unfortunately, the documents I have are in Russian, and it took a lot of time to translate them so it's not all –"

"Show them to me," Jack cut in, earning himself identically incredulous looks from both women. "I could help you with those if you want."

It broke the sombre mood in an instant.

"Russian, Jack?" Sam raised an eyebrow.

"Just something I had to learn because of several missions in the USSR early on. Just a bit," he told her dismissively, shrugging awkwardly, then tried to clarify, "not that I can understand everything that well anyway."

Smiling, Kerry handed the papers to him. "You admit to a lot less than what you know, Jack. The most vital ones are found on pages 1-23, not that you'd want to read them all."

He scanned through them in what looked like an effortless read, then turned back to the smirking women who were impatiently awaiting his translations.

"Apparently there are three similar witness reports of a slew of sightings in July, September and October 1967, all occurring in the Caucasus region of south-western USSR. Something about a large object that took a flight path heading east. These sightings were then quickly classified as 'myths' by the governing authority who immediately released a statement of official scientific experiments involving a space mission and craft testing."

"Yeah, I think we know that already," Kerry told him thoughtfully. "Try reading from page 20 onwards."

"Could have said so earlier," he groused, earning an amused look from Sam as he flipped the pages. "Looks like an exploratory probe they were testing, a Soviet spacecraft test called a 'Fractional Orbit Bombardment System' – a name given by the Pentagon. Russian science experts claim that the thing simply made loops around Earth, the re-entries into the atmosphere happening precisely at the time of the reported mass sightings. Not too long after, the Pentagon released a statement confirming the Russian probe test, urging calm among some frazzled US citizens."

Test flights and cover-ups. Deliberate forged reports that overshadowed eyewitness statements.

Sam's gaze wandered to the pendant that lay on the table, thinking about its symbolism in mythology.

The Aegis was represented by the shield on which Medusa's head was mounted.

Which history later commemorated as the form of an amulet worn for protection.

In a flash, Sam realised that she and Jack had gotten it wrong.

If the ancient cultures had taken to wearing the amulet which was symbolic of a deity's protection, the secret organisation had, rather presumptuously, probably worn the pendant to signify their pledge to protect the Earth at all costs.

The Roswell incident had been sufficient warning of Earth's inadequate resources and fragile political situation in the late 1940s, she reflected. But it hadn't changed much since then, especially when it came to territorial disputes and the stockpile of armaments. The Kamchatka incident in Russia had merely driven the Aegis's impetus deeper to keep Earth an isolated planet, away from the dangers in the galaxy that the human mind could never fully imagine.

A fully functioning Stargate would have been a threat instead of any help to them, according to the philosophy of the Aegis. If that large ring could open a stable wormhole simply by the action of punching in a specific combination of glyphs, who knew what they might find on the other end? Hypothetically, the discovery of new technology and advanced races would aid tremendously in bolstering Earth's security. But the pessimist in her, recently emergent in the past weeks, knew it also meant an open door to unspeakable horrors that no one on this planet could deal with.

The pieces were slowly falling into place.

If a military risk analysis always tended to consider the worst-case scenarios, then it must have been the potential fallout that they were considering if the Stargate had been activated. Convinced of the cons outweighing the odds, they must have decided that it would, at all costs, remain an unsolved mystery. To the extent where it meant she and poor Catherine and all the others who were lost since the madness began, were meant to be part of the collateral damage which in the bigger picture probably counted for nothing.

It made her more than furious.

"What's General West's part in all of this?" Sam asked Kerry suddenly, wondering how that man played into the picture.

Kerry didn't answer immediately. "I can pretty much say that Winston O. West isn't part of this group."

"How would you know that?"

Kerry smiled ironically. "General Winston Orville West hanged himself in his house a few hours ago, complete with a suicide note next to where his body was found. A replacement for his command in Cheyenne Mountain, which is reportedly NORAD, hasn't been found yet. And when a General does something like that, you know it's big news. It's not been released to the press, but these things will get around sooner or later."

"A General committing suicide is big news," Jack confirmed grimly, noting Sam's look of shock. "The press will be all over this. The military's going to come under scrutiny when this happens."

"It's also unusual as well," Kerry continued from where she left off. "As far as the CIA's concerned, the official story that I've been given is this: West is guilty of several corruption charges, his activities having been monitored by the CIA and the FBI for some time. We still have an account of his dealings and evidence suggesting that he hanged himself out of guilt for betraying the country he had vowed to serve. That's not exactly part of my investigation, but as I said, news tends to get around. "

"Do you think that the Aegis is responsible for this?" Sam asked. "Or who will be taking over his command?"

An indefinable emotion crossed Kerry's face. "It's possible. We can't rule out anything, not when their modus operandi is too shady for us to pin down," she reflected. "The short answer to your second question would be that no one knows. His position is empty for the moment. West's corruption is going to be dealt with the way the military does best with certain things – and what I really mean is that it's going to be covered up as best as it could especially because such things are bad for morale. But even that has a way of leaking out, especially when you've got too many channels of communication open. After what West has done though, even I wouldn't be surprised if his replacement is given hell during the screening process."

Jack exhaled noisily and rubbed his hands through his hair. He hadn't liked how the jigsaw pieces were coming together, hated how he'd been part of an elaborate scheme that had operated with its own brand of justice that basically stemmed from paranoia. He despised in particular, how he'd been moved – like the many others before and after him – like an ignorant pawn on a chessboard.

He forced himself to swallow the tide of rising anger, then shifted his thoughts to the Aegis's far-reaching networks.

It was increasingly evident that there were moles even in the top-secret facility in Cheyenne Mountain. If Carter had become a target of the Aegis, then it seemed that Winston Orville West had been too preoccupied in his private sector funding that he hadn't even known she was snooping into the aeronautical firms that had been providing him with a ready cash flow.

Then it could only mean that West, unsuspectingly, had become a target himself. The extra cash that exchanged hands under the table simply meant that he had a reason to keep the Stargate program alive and kicking. Which meant, going by the way the Aegis worked, that he was as much a threat to them as Carter had been.

He reached for another thick file on the table, pulled it towards him and flipped through the pages. Printed on several sheets of paper tucked deep within was a lengthy list of names that had no label or heading.

Jack took it out gingerly, careful not to upset the carefully arranged stack of papers within the folder.

What he saw made him catch his breath.

His eyes were flinty when he spoke. "Kerry, what do you think this is?"

She took it from him, frowning as she saw its heading. "I only just received this today but haven't read it yet," she started slowly, her eyes skimming the names, "but I think you just found part of the evidence that might incriminate the Aegis."

The hardness in his voice hadn't left. "Look again. Carefully, this time."

She perused the list until she reached the bottom of the second page, then froze in shock.

_Sean Patrick Charles O'Neill  
D.O.B: 24.04.1902  
Location: 47.405785, -91.241455, Northern Minnesota  
Status: Threat to National security; update: threat neutralised, 06.12.1965  
Elimination: In excess of the use of _ 2-Butoxyethanol over a period of __

"Believe me, Jack, I never knew," Kerry said, turning troubled eyes to him.

Prickling apprehension crept around his neck and caused him to clench his fists. "I hope so, because that's my grandfather we're talking about."


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter 22**

**Kerry Johnson's residence  
Washington D.C.  
6 October 1995**

"2-Butoxyethanol is a colourless liquid found in most cleaning products as an organic solvent. Exposure to 2-Butoxyethanol will first cause the victim to exhibit severe flu-like symptoms, a condition that degenerates into multiple organ failure, high blood pressure and acute blood disorders within a week. If left untreated, death will follow in two weeks to a month."

Sam watched the pretty woman with glossy auburn locks take a sip of water in her own glass after explaining the human body's reaction to the poison, pondering how Jack's revelation had thrown all of them into a loop so unexpected.

There was so much she needed to discuss with Jack; it was clear that he'd gotten the whole picture as much as she did. Having just determined the cause of Sean O'Neill's death however, made her next step uncertain.

Jack's reaction and thoughts, as always, were closed to her unless he chose to reveal them, and she wasn't entirely sure how exactly he was faring in coming to terms with the shocking news that his grandfather was a victim of 2-Butoxyethanol poisoning.

Especially after having gone through his son's death not too long ago.

She looked at him, unwittingly admiring the hard lines in his face as he sat silent and stared at the floor, his forehead creased in concentration.

Then his face changed, softening slightly as he took in the brunette who was looking at him with sadness and understanding.

Kerry commiserated, "You've told me stories about him, Jack. It felt as though I knew him too."

"I always thought he died from a particularly virulent strain of influenza that had hit the town in the winter of 1965, or at least that was what my father told me," he told both women awkwardly, the thought of revisiting another private moment in his family history making his stomach clench involuntarily.

"Jack-" Sam began "It-"

It was as though he hadn't heard her. "He's buried up north in his cabin in Minnesota," he finished roughly, "and if there's anything to be found, it's there."

Their gazes met and held in that interminable second. Sam was the first to break the contact.

"I think," he said at last, getting to his feet, "that we can't thank you enough, Kerry."

The CIA agent hesitantly stood up. "Where are you going? Do you have a place for the night? I could, you know – "

But Jack was already shaking his head. "I think this should be the extent of our conversation," he told her with finality, "for your own safety. We've had –", he glanced at Sam, "too many close calls, too many people getting hurt because of us."

"So, that's it," Kerry said quietly, but not without a hint of bitterness. "You sweep into my life and leave, before I can even start to figure out what's really going on with you–"

"It's for the best, Kerry," Jack said gently. He was standing near enough for her to remember how he used to smell like – a heady combination of musk, sunshine and pine that had always brought to mind the great outdoors. She took another surreptitious breath, which turned into a tiny gasp when he placed a chaste kiss on her cheek in farewell. "Goodbye."

They turned to go, the blonde lightly touching his shoulder in a show of support.

It was then she knew there was more between them than it looked. Taking a deep breath, she made a decision. "Wait."

He turned back to her, a surprised look on his face.

"You should have these," she said, thrusting at him the file containing all the papers that they had gone through earlier, knowing it was an inadequate compensatory act for what she did to him years ago. "I've a feeling you will need it more than me in the coming days. I have copies, anyway."

For a moment Jack didn't move. Then he reached out and took it from her, as though he recognised her gesture for what it was.

A rare smile twisted his lips. "Thanks."

She watched them leave her apartment, then picked up the phone in the living room. Glancing at the clock, she hoped to God that he was still awake to take her call.

It was a relief to hear his Texan twang that always seemed to be more pronounced when he was tired.

"Hammond."

"Thank god you're awake, General," she told him. "They've just been around and there're some things you should know."

* * *

They had left Kerry's apartment hurriedly, running through the steadily-falling rain down the street, sheltered under his jacket that he held over both their heads.

And they'd barely gotten into the car when Jack palmed the steering wheel hard and cursed, "Son of a bitch. Those bastards."

His controlled anger amazed her. That tightly coiled spring of tension stayed as it was, held in place by a strong, inner grip of restraint.

"Do you remember much of your grandfather?" She responded quietly, taking his hand in hers.

Jack looked down at their joined hands and tightened his grip around hers. "We did lots of stuff together. He used to take me fishing in a cabin up in Northern Minnesota from time to time," he said a little unsteadily, and looked up, finding her eyes, "And he was the deciding factor in me wanting to become a pilot. I never knew what he did in the military, never asked, only knew that he liked to fly."

"When did you last see him?"

He shook his head. "Don't remember. Only that my dad came in one day saying that he'd died."

"Do you –," she swallowed than began again uncertainly, "do you really think that he might have left something behind? Any proof of implicating evidence of the Aegis before he died?

He turned to her, considering her words. "Maybe. No one in my family ever mentioned anything about it. But if he did, there would only be one place where it would be kept."

"The cabin in Minnesota?"

"The cabin was his sanctuary. That much I know. And I can't think of any place better. But I haven't been there since he died and my grandmother abandoned the place a decade after his death."

"Think it'll be there still?"

"I hope so. But only god knows the state it's in now."

But Sam had stopped listening, unable to shake off the feeling that there was someone else nearby.

So caught up were they in his personal reminiscence that they hadn't noticed the shadows creeping up on them. Before she could say anything to him, the car door had been flung open and she was dragged out onto the wet concrete.

The rain dimmed the brightness of the city lights, allowing her only to see a blurred movement behind her reflected in the car window. Her combat instincts kicked in and she twisted herself upright, bucking her assailant into the sharp edge of the car door.

Sam lunged at him before he could recover, using the force of her body to hem him in. His strength was however, superior, and a hard palm to her face made her stumble again to the slippery ground.

Pain exploded in her face and her side, leaving her suddenly breathless and light-headed.

Behind her, she heard the muted sounds of another scuffle taking place.

_Jack!_

But before she could cry out, a hand had clamped hard over her mouth, flipping her face forward. She felt her hands being tied together tightly, then she was forcibly hauled upright, seeing Jack overpowered by three men dressed in black, their faces shielded by masks.

There were as always, the same two options, the most basic of human primal instincts.

Fight or flight.

Weakened from exertion and the blow to her face, she probably wouldn't be able to hold up on her own for long. Running meant risking exposure to gunshots and bullets, all of which would be easily muffled in the harsh sounds of the rain that pummelled the concrete ground.

Even the fight, as short as it had been, was suddenly over for her.

She was shoved into a waiting SUV with tinted windows after being thoroughly frisked, realising that Jack was already seated in there, his hands bound like hers were. A quick glance at him told her that he'd scraped his face and arms on the hard ground during his own struggle.

Then she saw him shake his head minutely.

_Not a word._

She understood.

The SUV squealed off the curb, accelerating past the suburban row of houses, then swung onto a parallel road that bordered the motorway for some distance.

Lined on both sides by high dividers, the vehicle sped down the single lane.

Her mind raced with the possibilities of escape and drew a blank. Any attempt to overpower their attackers would only cause the car to swerve on the slick road and slam into solid concrete walls.

The impact would shatter bones.

Without warning, the high-beam lights of a fast-moving, tailgating car shone straight through the SUV's rearview mirror, temporarily creating a blinding effect for all its occupants.

The SUV steered off course just as its back window shattered into a million pieces.

The impact of an exploding flash-grenade thrown through the hole in the back tossed the vehicle up into the air as though an invisible hand had flung it upwards.

The first explosion had made Jack dive instinctively as low as they could. He tried to brace himself, crouching in a position that would minimally impact his joints and spine, hoping that Carter had followed his cue.

A second later, the car fell back to the ground roof first, the impact of its crash flattening the top completely, sending a spray of mangled metal and glass across the road surface.

The screech of a braking vehicle resounded through the single carriageway from a distance.

Approaching footsteps and a few shots from a muffled gun reached his ears.

Disoriented from the effects of the stun grenade, all Jack could do was blink to clear his head, his sight still hampered by the dark spots that swam across his eyes. He tried to take in his surroundings, feeling a quick burst of panic running through him as the shapes and the outlines of everything looked wrong. Then he realised he was held tight in an awkward position, seated the wrong way up as the seatbelt dug into his neck, pinned by half of Sam's body weight on him. Thinking that he had lost a vital few seconds in negotiating their escape, he turned to her, realising that she wasn't doing very much better.

But at least she wasn't unconscious, and was struggling to get free of her seatbelt. The crash had turned _her_ partially atop one of the dead men, the heavy weight of his body trapping her left leg and arm.

"You OK?" He murmured gruffly.

She groaned in agony as she shifted her free arm and leg experimentally. "Apart for having whiplash, scrapes and bruises, yeah, still breathing."

Their captors were dead from the gunshots, but whoever it was who had shot them hadn't done much else. Sam abandoned the faint hope that they would have an easier time getting themselves free, especially if the violent lurch of the SUV during the explosion had punctured the fuel tank.

"C'mon, Carter. You can do it."

It earned him a glare as she worked, and despite their dire situation, he was more than happy that she was by his side, getting his sorry six out of the mess.

Struggling out of their entangled belts, she finally managed to get Jack free after she moved her weight off him. As much as he could in the confined space, he gave her a slight boost out of the rear window then followed her out as invisible hands seemed to tilt the overturned vehicle one way so they could clamber out the other side more easily.

"Colonel O'Neill? Captain Carter?" A gravelly voice pierced her consciousness.

They turned quickly to face two men dressed in civilian clothing.

It wasn't lost on her that they had used both their military ranks. It was an unpleasant reminder of how much her world had changed since her ordered, daily routine in the labs. How it now seemed like a lifetime away.

"I assume this is your doing?" Jack raised his eyebrows and pointed at the carnage around them. "Not that I'm ungrateful, gentlemen, but–"

"It's General Hammond's request that you come with us," one of them said, gesturing to their own vehicle parked by the side of the road.

"Never heard of him," Jack put in.

"I promise nothing will happen to you. In fact, we've even retrieved all your things from your car that is still parked near Agent Johnson's apartment complex."

"Why?" Sam asked without preamble, grimacing as she examined the scrapes on her arm. "And," she looked around her as realisation dawned on her, "is Agent Johnson safe? The men who took us would have wanted her too."

He didn't answer her question. "The General is someone Agent Johnson thinks you should meet."

Had they read Kerry Johnson wrongly? Had they, in fact, fallen into a trap she'd set up?

Yet the way that these men had taken care of their captors seemed to suggest otherwise. Caution made her take half a step back unconsciously as she took in her surroundings in preparation to run.

They must have seen her nervousness and confusion emerge. "Sir, Ma'am, I can assure you that Agent Johnson is safe, and that you are both safe with us. General Hammond guarantees it."

She turned to Jack to see a cautious look appear on his face, which soon turned to reluctant acceptance as the second man handed them back their weapons.

Relief – blessed relief coursed through her.

Jack nodded back once at her when she had holstered her own gun.

"Alright, take us there."

* * *

**Washington D.C.  
7 October 1995 **

They were escorted to a relatively wealthy-looking suburban home, and ushered into what looked like a family room beautifully decorated with differentiated shades of colours, materials and textures.

The man who emerged from the back room was portly and bald with piercing blue eyes and wore an experienced air of command that draped like a heavy coat on his shoulders.

He gestured to a grey couch behind them. "Colonel, Captain, please, take a seat. I promise you're safe for the moment. Can I offer you anything?"

They settled down uneasily, sitting such that their hips were touching.

"No thanks, Sir. And…actually, it's just Samantha, or Sam if you like, and Jack. But you probably already know we're so far gone beyond the regulations that the ranks don't quite matter at all," Jack said.

The man snorted in part-resignation and part-appreciation at his audacity, then continued, "My name is George Hammond. Officially, I'm the deputy commander of 6th Special Operations Wing in Eglin Air Force Base, Florida. Not that that's of any concern to you. What I do unofficially however, does. Earlier this evening, I received a call from Agent Kerry Johnson who told me that she had just met you, along with the details of a particular conversation you had with her."

He waited for the information to sink in and for the questions to start. The young blond Captain didn't disappoint him.

"So you're indeed the high-ranking officer whom she's been talking about. The one who was managing this investigation all along. From the very beginning of her career," she said in dawning comprehension.

"Agent Johnson has been working on uncovering the Aegis for me," Hammond replied. "But it's the Colonel whom I've been following closely since this all began, something Ms Johnson doesn't know I've been doing.

Jack didn't flinch at that particular revelation, but then again, Sam thought, very little seemed to faze him.

Hammond turned to her, assessing her with a sharp gaze. "You, Captain, were the wildcard. The surprise twist in the story."

"Me, Sir?" She asked warily, still uncertain where the General was heading.

"You're good at this disappearing act, both of you. There were times when you completely fell off my radar. But when I heard that you had turned to Ms Johnson, I knew it was time that we met."

"Please enlighten us, Sir." There was sardonic anticipation in Jack's voice.

Hammond sighed. "What I'm going to say is off the record, Colonel O'Neill. I've read your file, Jack, about your maverick and sometimes-insubordinate tendencies and your incredible field and flying abilities. But I also know why you ran. I know why you countermanded your orders and took Captain Carter with you, despite knowing what you had committed a grave offence that would doubtlessly get you court-martialled in ordinary circumstances. And I think that you've also realised that there are larger things at stake here, Colonel. Which was why we didn't think you should be left in the lurch when the Aegis's henchmen ran you down."

"We?"

"Sir –"

Hammond held his hand up. "I'm not your commanding officer, so call me George. In fact, you're in my vacation home, so that makes the both of you my guests. And I'd prefer for it to stay that way. In fact, I'd offer you a place to stay tonight, but something tells me that you're both eager to go off on your own to do some recon."

Stoic faces met his statement, then turned silently to regard each other wordlessly.

"I still don't think I got that part down yet. Why are we here?" Sam asked slowly, unable to understand what exactly Hammond wanted from them.

"The long and short of it, Captain," Hammond said, "is that Ms. Johnson's not privy to everything that I know and what she has told you is merely part of the set-up. The fact is, the President is well aware of the alleged existence of the Aegis and has commissioned a group dedicated to exposing their activities. And the more information that we could gather, the better."

"So it's information that you're looking for?" She asked in disbelief, knowing she was treading the thin boundary between insubordination and polite expression of confusion. "You're mistaken if you think that…with due respect Sir, it was Agent Johnson who furnished us with all the details, but you also know that already."

"So what can we give you that you don't already have?" Jack asked shrewdly.

Hammond heaved a sigh of impatience. "What do you think, Jack?"

"Sir?" That term of address wasn't lost on Hammond.

He had to hand it to O'Neill. It was less out of habit than it was of strategic positioning that the Colonel had deliberately kept the ranks, maintaining the formal boundaries of superior officer and subordinate until he proved he had something to offer them.

Hammond walked to a window and stared out to the rain that had lightened into a drizzle. He knew that nothing but the full truth would suffice and he just wasn't looking forward to the long conversation and the slew of revelations that would follow.

"Might I remind you, Colonel, that everything here is on a need-to-know basis and that you've been told more than you were supposed to?"

"You wouldn't have gotten us here if you already didn't see the need for us to know, George," Jack replied steadily.

With a frown, Sam turned to him, then to Hammond. "General? Why don't you start from the beginning?"

Hammond turned away from the window slowly, and Jack thought he caught a glint of irritation in his eyes before it disappeared as quickly as it came. "You already know that the Aegis was formed out of the original Majestic-12 with the sole purpose of protecting the Earth from alien threats. The Roswell incident on American soil proved it. And if it happened once, it can happen again. If you haven't already connected the dots, the alien device under Cheyenne Mountain was only until recently, a latent threat. It wasn't until the USAF decided to take it out of a military storage warehouse and begin serious research that it was considered again by the Aegis as an utmost danger to Earth. That's where you, Captain," he looked at her steadily, "come into the picture."

"I think I get that part," Sam spoke in turn. "My job was to figure out how the ring technology worked," she endeavoured to explain, "then things started happening."

It was suddenly as clear as the distinction between night and day. The paranoid fear of the Aegis had merely resulted in a list of unimaginable, innocent deaths, and would have resulted in hers and god knew how much more had Jack not turned on his orders.

"The grey ring, in short, was acknowledged to be another source of danger, apart from the threat of the Roswell aliens. It was another gap to plug in their security network," he said, "but that isn't all. My own intelligence reports claim that they are convinced that Earth is somehow going to be subjected to –," Hammond grimaced at the preposterous-sounding statement that he was going to make and said, "to an even bigger incident than the Roswell crash. Something akin to a hostile invasion. All of which have been hinted at given the widespread solar storms in the past few weeks."

"Just as McKay predicted," she muttered in reply, eliciting a slight upturn of Jack's lips.

Hammond ignored her quip and continued, "Having you eliminated, Captain, was to prevent the activation of the ring portal in case it opened the door to something out there which is more lethal, more destructive than a nuclear warhead, be it a renewed attack from the Roswell beings or not. Not knowing those beings' purposes for coming is in fact, exactly the problem. For the Aegis, the safest, but perhaps not the wisest method to prevent such an occurrence from happening is to make sure that Earth's atmospheric and stellar boundaries are tightly controlled."

The Captain was already shaking her head. "You can't control Earth's atmospheric boundaries the same way immigration controls the flow of human traffic," she pointed out then added as an afterthought, "that's short of impossible unless there's some planetary shield that can encase the whole Earth. That sort of technology exists only in science fiction."

"Exactly, Captain. As far as the Aegis is concerned, the recent spate of power outages caused by an apparent appearance of solar flares is merely symptomatic of a coming catastrophic event, simply proving Earth's vulnerability to threats coming from whatever it is out there," Hammond replied. "Finding out the actual cause of these severe outages has been the recent prerogative of the Aegis's Research and Development team as far as my sources tell me. And until then, everything else is conjecture."

It didn't quite make sense in Jack's book. At least, not yet.

His initial uncertainty turned into scepticism and suspicion. There was something else that Hammond wasn't yet saying, an aspect of their belief in a pending alien invasion that hadn't fit their consistently offensive modus operandi that he'd witnessed first hand.

"General, let's just assume they've got it right about doomsday. So their solution is to just keep the Stargate a secret and bury their asses in the sand?"

"There's another part to the story, Jack," Hammond replied in grudging admiration of the Colonel's offhand but astute questioning. "I have several investigative reports of the Aegis's key members suggesting their involvement in certain clandestine activities. For years, we have been searching for sufficient evidence to link some of them to the illegal import of nuclear arms and technology from the Caucasus and the Middle East in exchange for the designs of some of the US military's defence systems. If you haven't known by now, a river of dirty money runs through the underbelly of the Pentagon."

"So the illegal weapons stockpile is, presumably, their answer to a potential invasion," Jack murmured. "Nice to see their concern for the whole Earth when things screw up."

God, it was worse than he'd thought.

Hammond was quick to answer. "If it comes to that, we're looking at an extinction-level event. The world cannot handle another war fought with nuclear weapons. I know that full well, Colonel, which is why I think we might need to do something about it."

There was no mistaking that pronoun. "We?"

"You heard that right. But not in any official capacity. "

Jack didn't move a muscle. "Sir?

"We're biding our time, Colonel, and I think that the both of you would be a great help to me."

Jack's curiosity won out. "What are you asking?"

Hammond gave them a meaningful look. "Agent Johnson told me that you had discovered that your grandfather was an early casualty of this organisation. Perhaps you would like to see if that trail leads anywhere significant."

The Colonel smiled humourlessly. "Yes, Sir, we were already intending to do that."

"Go to Minnesota, Jack," Hammond said evenly, "I hope you find what you're looking for. And," he hesitated for a millisecond, "you have my word that you'll have everything you need for your journey there."

"Everything?" Sam repeated guardedly, drawing his piercing blue gaze to her own questioning ones.

"Everything," Hammond echoed and looked straight at the both of them, "And in return, we'll keep an eye out for you. Report whatever findings you have in a week."


	24. Chapter 24

_A/N: We're in the last stretch now of things now. Thank you for reading and reviewing. Part of the dialogue below's taken from 'Children of the Gods.'_

* * *

**Chapter 23**

**Northern Minnesota  
10 October 1995 **

The dirt track was barely visible under the overgrown grass. The wheels of the car crunched it way through the path, finally stopping where the track ended.

"We're here."

"That it," Sam said at the same time, shutting down the engine and feeling herself slump with the fatigue that threatened to overcome her despite it being the early hours of the afternoon.

They had taken turns at the wheel, spending the last twenty hours or so on the road, only stopping for rest at motels and pit stops in several diners located in the middle of nowhere.

For the moment at least, they were safe.

It was what Hammond had promised and she intended to hold him to it.

"Hell of a drive," Jack commented and stepped out of the car. "Especially the terrain towards the end."

From where she stood, a small log cabin sat at an angle from the driveway, its entrance partially hidden by undergrowth that had gone untended. Sam squinted to see a small dock behind the cabin, barely visible from the overhang of the trees in the front porch. It led out to a rippling pond, flanked on one side by medium-height balsam poplar trees. The pallid afternoon sun was peeking out, its weak rays lending the body of water a blue-green hue.

She inhaled raggedly, the cool air of the afternoon sweeping the scent of pine forests into her lungs. "It's beautiful, you know," she told him with a smile, "I can only imagine what it's like all done up."

"Glad you like it, Carter, but I really can't take credit for anything here," he answered her distractedly, already trudging through the undergrowth towards the cabin.

She was right behind him when he stopped in front of the door, looking over the condition of the wood and the chains that wound around its handles.

"Let me try this," Sam suggested and stepped around him, taking out her pocketknife as she set to work.

He shrugged and moved away to give her some space. Involuntarily, his eyes moved to the spot where Sean O'Neill was buried under the poplar trees, just several paces away from the dock, at the place he seemed to have loved most.

"Got it."

Jack turned back to see her pulling the chains and the locks away, raising his eyebrows at how she deftly had handled those. He gestured inside. "Good. I was gonna say 'Ladies first'."

He grinned at her answering snort and stepped in after her.

The musty scent tingled their noses, the open door letting in a shaft of light that illuminated cloth-covered furniture and dust-stained windows in a living space that looked bigger than they expected. To the right, a small corridor lined with cobwebs led to what looked like two bedrooms and a small kitchen.

Decades-old dust dispersed as they walked further in. The floorboards creaked under their footsteps, the sound unnaturally loud in the ringing silence.

She went to the windows and threw them open without much difficulty. Immediately, the autumn forest breeze rushed in, causing the covering cloths to flutter.

"So, what are we looking for?"

"Some kind of storage closet, hidden openings in walls, that sort of thing," he admitted sheepishly, running his hands along the walls.

She spied an opening to the right. "I'm going to check that out."

Sam followed the small corridor, then turned left into the first bedroom. Half the room had been taken up by a double bed with a bare mattress and a pile of folded quilts covered by an inch-thick layer of dust. Left completely bare of other furnishings, there was an unobstructed path to its larger windows that offered a partial view of the pond's smooth surface.

She walked towards the window, took in her surroundings through the dust-stained glass, then walked out.

In the second bedroom, a tiny bed stood at the corner of the room just beneath a small, stained window, flanked by a dresser and an empty Formica shelf unit. Several metres up, the patterned wallpaper had been forcibly torn from the ceiling and walls. Only a few useless strips that hung in curled rolls remained.

A child's bedroom.

Had it been his?

"I'd almost forgotten what it was like up here." His voice interrupted her out of her musings.

Jack stood at the threshold of the door, his face more open than she could ever remember.

"Do you miss it?"

"You can't really miss what you don't really remember much of."

"What do you remember?"

He shrugged. "Lots of fishing, lots of walking, lots of sleeping."

She walked up to him, stopping just a step away from him, then traced her fingers down his shirt. "I like seeing this part of you, Jack O'Neill."

The warmth of her palms zinged straight through to his shirt; it was enough to interrupt the flow of his breathing. He asked, if a little unsteadily, "Which part are we talking about exactly?"

He was almost disappointed when her hands fell away and she started laughing.

When she quietened down, all she did was to take his hand and lead him outside. "Come on, let's get our supplies out and ready for the night."

* * *

**Northern Minnesota  
11 October 1995 **

She was busily clearing the remnants of breakfast when he decided to take another look inside, going back to the room that he had slept in all those years ago.

Between them the previous day, they'd cleared the cobwebs and the dust as best as they could until twilight fell, airing the place until nightfall so that the cabin looked more lived in. But they had been hesitant to spend the night in that dusty room, and had chosen instead to set up a tent under the clear night sky as their temporary lodging until the cabin could be cleaned out properly. Dinner had consisted of unrecognisable food in an MRE eaten with some god-awful instant coffee mix in front of a small fire, where they sat talking until the fire snapped and died out when their logs collapsed.

It hadn't exactly been as appalling as he'd thought it would be, despite the state the cabin was in. In fact, he would have been a lot more bitter without any electricity and any decent water supply outlet had she not convinced him that a shared bath with water slowly heated over a fire was exactly what they needed.

Jack smiled at the memory and ran his fingers over the wooden bed frame, wishing he could remember more of that period of his childhood than he really did.

In the face of such unexpected tranquillity, Jack wished he had sought to maintain the cabin when his grandparents had left it.

But it wasn't too late, he thought, because…because tomorrow was slowly starting to matter again.

If they came out of this alive, he vowed he would overhaul its interior, make it liveable again, making the place he would escape to whenever he could, a symbol of the new life he'd be carving out and living after Charlie. And if Carter were willing and he hoped to god that she would be – not that he knew if she felt the same way he did – she'd agree to be by his side every step of the way as he got it ready.

Because it now meant so much more than a simple overhaul of a broken building.

For five minutes, he stood unmoving, his thoughts eventually meandering down the darker path to the last days of Sean O'Neill, wondering if he'd got it all wrong after all. Had his grandfather taken all his secrets to the grave, leaving no trace of the tragedy that had befallen him?

Unbidden, a fuzzy memory hovered at the edge of his consciousness, then surfaced and crystallised into an image of clarity.

It was a recollection of the toys he'd kept hidden under the floorboards of this very room, a method he'd discovered for safekeeping. A secret that he'd felt comfortable sharing only with his grandfather.

An experimental press of his boot heel into the spot of his old hiding place shifted the floorboard upward. He knelt to set it aside, his eyes widening at the sight of the old toys still tucked against the edge of the neighbouring board. G.I. Joe stared up at him, the action figure that fronted the rest of his paraphernalia. He took them out gingerly, feeling their familiar shapes.

But underneath them lay a heap of yellowed papers carefully wrapped in clear plastic, protected against the erosive elements of time and change.

His astonished shout brought Sam running into the room at full-speed, nearly colliding into his rigid back.

Then he turned to her with the papers in his hands, and her mouth dropped open in shock.

* * *

They had settled comfortably on the dock with the papers between them and a fire burning comfortably in the background.

"Ready?" He asked.

She nodded mutely, taking up the first few sheaves of paper.

* * *

_July 19, 1959_

_I came to know someone today entirely by coincidence when I went for a walk in the park. Maj. Luke Cowan of the USAF, a nice young chap who had been given a medical discharge barely four months prior. To my amazement, I learned that he had served in the initial reconnaissance efforts in New Mexico, Roswell, in an incident that had taken the world by storm._

_As two retired military men, we got on well, spending our time drinking whenever we met, recounting our Air Force stories. He told me the most wondrous things._

_My two-year-old grandson would have loved his stories._

* * *

_December 20, 1961_

_I hadn't seen Luke for nearly ten months. He finally appeared today, looking haggard and weary. When asked how he was doing, he simply shook his head and said that his family business was doing well. Too well for him to get sufficient rest._

_We didn't talk much, and as we parted ways, I wished him good luck._

* * *

_September 12, 1962_

_No one has seen or heard of Luke Cowan for weeks. It is as though he never existed, his identity erased from the face of the Earth. The only people who remember him are his wife and children. According to them, he had simply walked out on a cold night in January to take care of some business and never returned._

_Am I supposed to let the disappearance of a good friend just pass me by?_

* * *

_October 16, 1963_

_I took the liberty of looking up Luke's friends and acquaintances. Their replies were similar: Luke had long stopped joining them on regular bridge and poker nights. He had apparently severed all contact with them a few months before his disappearance. No one even knew the business that he had to take care of._

* * *

_February 28, 1964_

_Mrs Cowan and her children held a private funeral for Luke today. After nearly a year-and-a-half of futile searching, Maj. Luke Cowan was officially declared dead._

_My search for the truth has thus far, led nowhere. I've exhausted all of my contacts._

_But I received a call today, an anonymous call. I was ordered to call off my enquiry into Luke's apparent death and was told that a sum of ten thousand dollars had been already been wired into my bank account. This is an unforeseen opening._

_Marie is frightened. For all of us, and especially for our young grandson Jonathan whose parents have recently divorced._

* * *

_November 15, 1964_

_Tullus Inc._

_The oil conglomerate that was responsible for wiring that generous source of income, although I imagine that for a company that size, this is probably nothing but peanuts to them._

_But Tullus Inc., after months of meticulous searching, doesn't seem to exist. It is a shell company, fronted by a group of directors who also do not exist in the US records of births and deaths, registered to a ghost address in Fremont County, Wyoming._

* * *

_August 20, 1965_

_Nine months! It took me a period of nine months to obtain several account balances of Tullus, Inc. through means that Marie would never approve of. She always thought that I was indulging my love of reading at the local library._

_Set-up in 1952, Tullus, Inc. began with a set-up amount of USD $2,000,000, receiving a subsequent constant cash flow of USD $3,500,000 in the years 1953-1963, increasing exponentially to an annual USD $7,500,000 from 1964 onwards._

_The sources of the funding remain obscured to me. The entries of each deposit are marked out completely, but I know that the money trail leads out of the country, which I suspect is created by a myriad of corporations, firms and individuals owning offshore accounts. As they fall under offshore jurisdictions, information regarding these accounts can only be given out in the case of criminal investigations or if a court order has been handed down._

_How is this company connected to Luke? What had he done?_

_It had been two years and I fear I am no closer to getting to the bottom of Luke's disappearance._

* * *

She found Jack several paces away from the dock leaning against a tree, oblivious to the slight drizzle that was starting to blur the Minnesotan landscape into a patchwork of browns, reds and greens.

He was staring at the spot where his grandfather was buried, seemingly lost in thought.

She simply stood some metres behind him, unsure if he wanted company, observing his hunched posture framed against the trunk. She let her eyes flutter close against the force of the droplets, relishing the feel of it against her skin.

"You can barely see the outlines of his grave," he said without turning around. "There used to be a small stone marker. But even that's gone."

She stepped up to him, her eyes drawn to the spot where the grave was. Inadvertently, the memory of another time, another gravestone floated to the surface of her memories. "When my mother died, I visited her grave everyday. Sometimes twice when I could. It was near where we stayed at that time, and I always felt closer to her when I was there. I'd imagine she was looking down, listening to me. But life…went on. My visits got less frequent as the years went by, and often I wonder if I'm dishonouring her memory by not seeing her as often as I should be doing."

Her personal disclosure was met by silence. But when he turned to her and placed a hand briefly on her shoulder in commiseration, she felt the tension leave her muscles.

Jack didn't respond immediately, his resignation morphing into weariness. "I don't know what to think," he told her frankly. "When this all first started, I…I thought…fucking hell," he scrubbed his face, not entirely sure how to go on, "I never imagined that it would turn out like...like this."

It was more than surprising to hear that admission from him. But she knew that feeling well, having lived everything off-centre for the past month.

"Like you'd end up sleeping with a woman you were supposed to kill, running for your life, before discovering that your grandfather was involved in a plot and murdered for it?"

He flashed her a grateful, sideways grin for her wry attempt at humour, recognising it for what it was. "Yeah, something like that. Tends to give you some perspective when you find yourself living in a soap opera."

"I know what you mean," Sam sighed, the humour gone as quickly as it came. "Of all the events in my life, even breaking my engagement doesn't even come close to this."

The revelation hit him in the face like an unexpected slap. "You were engaged?"

"It tends to happen. Try not to look so surprised," she replied dryly with a smirk, an expression that he thought didn't quite really suit her. "He was another officer, a black-ops guy. He was…charming and…liked control. And…maybe…maybe I really do go for broken men," she continued part-self-deprecatingly and part-jokingly," though I didn't quite think you were one when we met."

Jack raised his eyebrows in amused disbelief, only to realise that her voice had taken a turn for the unpleasant.

"Now that I think about it, it seems like I never learnt my lesson, didn't I?"

He instantly knew what she was referring to. Back that night in the barracks in Lexington, where he'd unwittingly learnt about the reckless imprudence of a teenage boy who had nearly destroyed her fragile self-esteem.

"Sometimes I think we don't," he said hesitantly, his dark eyes meeting her blue ones unflinchingly, "then we pay for it in ways we never thought we would."

It still astounded her to witness the openness that he showed at unexpected times, as though he now allowed that underlying sadness and to a lesser extent, that debilitating self-recrimination surface more easily after he'd actually told her about Charlie and Sara during that cathartic night in the beach cottage. But where a persistent ache of hopelessness seemed to have constantly assailed him before that, it now looked as though it had been tempered by a rising cautious optimism in the past two weeks.

Then that look was gone as quickly as it had appeared, so swiftly that she thought she'd imagined it.

"The paper trail would be cold by now," Jack briskly continued, now focused on the subject matter at hand.

She took a second to re-orientate, to realise what he was talking about. "He left more than his diary entries," she pointed out. "And Hammond has more contacts that he could reach more easily. Which could get him further than your granddad ever did. We should show him all that you've found."

They escaped into the dryness of the cabin just as the onslaught of water became a deluge that poured over the dock in streams.

It merely took a quick call through a secure line to Washington to convince Hammond that there was indeed something of importance he should look into as soon as they returned.

When Jack terminated the call, he found her staring at him or rather, through him, as she contemplated the twist in events, that bewildering change of direction that had come so suddenly when Hammond became a recent player in a lethal game of Russian roulette.

Anxiety and perplexity were clearly written on her face.

He'd recognised the familiar desperation that had overtaken her when they were on the run. It was an identical emotion that had him questioning the sanctity of life in an Iraqi prison, and one that had propelled him to ponder what a bullet through his head would have felt like.

He knew all too well that they were leaning on each other only because there had been no one else they thought they could trust. But this _thing_ that existed between them…it was still all so new that sometimes he forgot how to breathe, marvelling at how she didn't seem to mind handling damaged goods.

Then again, she had confessed to a penchant for fixing broken people.

Betrayed by the very institution around which she had built her life, he'd seen the carefully constructed façade of Captain Carter break down and watched how she had to learn to become someone else, become that woman whom he now knew as Sam.

But what did it mean now that they seemed to be taking tentative steps back to an organisation that had callously cut them free?

It was giving him a headache just thinking about things. Not that he was ever good at this sort of...stuff that was better reserved for the other half of the sexes.

Her voice pulled him out of his sombre musings. "What're you thinking about?"

With an effort to push away the thoughts that were more distressing than he cared to admit, he replied good-humouredly with an exaggerated sigh, "What makes you even think I'm thinking? That's your department."

It brought a chuckle out of her, and a knowing glint in her eyes.

Deep affection shone from her blue gaze – something he'd never thought he deserved or ever would see again – that turned from concerned to heated in the next moment.

It made his own breath hitch when she brought a tentative hand to his face, smoothing his hair until her fingers rested lightly on his neck. She leaned into him, her wandering hands prompting his own to stray down her sides.

Their lips met again and again, stirring anew the embers of a recently-quenched fire.

Hungry and wanting. Soft reassurance turning into blazing need. Taking all they could from each other, not knowing what tomorrow would bring.

Suddenly frantic, he backed her into a window, lifting her up onto the sill.

She matched his desperation, pulling his undershirt out of his jeans and tearing away his jacket with a roughness that made a small, feral smile appear on his lips.

He stood between her thighs, the heat of him throbbing against her jeans-covered legs. Suddenly impatient for the barrier of clothing to fall away, he tore open the zipper closure of her pants without much difficulty, then undid his own.

The wicked look he loved returned to her face as she swung her legs around his hips and pulled his head down to hers.

He welcomed it, willing himself to get lost in her arms.


	25. Chapter 25

**Chapter 24**

**George Hammond's vacation residence  
Washington D.C.  
13 October 1995**

It was with more than a tinge of regret that they closed up the cabin and took to the road the next morning as the first weak rays of sunshine lit the damp grass, feeling reality's all-too-familiar intrusion.

But it was hard to shake that niggling habit that had always insisted on duty and country above self, even when duty had screwed them over big time.

A day later, they sat in Hammond's large study in his vacation home, flanked by his security detail. Personally, Jack thought that all of them looked they had something shoved up their –

Hammond spoke, interrupting his wayward thoughts, thumbing his way through Sean O'Neill's truncated diary entries.

"Are you telling me, Colonel, that you've found all these documents up north?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Good. It's way beyond what we expected. Where Sean O'Neill couldn't go further, I can, and will," Hammond determined, his posture expectant. "Good work, both of you."

"Thank you, Sir."

"Thank you, Sir," Carter echoed, causing Hammond to shake his head slightly at her adoption of the same tone that O'Neill had employed.

He regarded them speculatively.

They worked well together, Hammond thought in grim satisfaction, having survived where most people wouldn't, going further when others would have flagged early on. They probably even influenced each other without even knowing they did and communicated on some level that he wasn't privy to.

"Would that be all, Sir?" O'Neill asked bluntly, his fingers restlessly tapping the table.

Hammond grunted wryly, starting to realise that a few minutes in Jack O'Neill's presence could sorely test his nerves. It took a very different kind of commanding officer to look beneath that part-roughness, part-insubordinate veneer glossed over by a commonplace, swaggering military bravado. Something that he'd seen all too often in his decades of service. O'Neill's hardness was no different, but along with it came a certain sharpness, or an astuteness and an intuitive sense of working that had probably accounted for his quick rise through the ranks.

He couldn't quite decide yet whether he disapproved.

But where O'Neill was fascinating enough as a study of human behaviour, the young Captain by his side was equally intriguing. Her extraordinary achievements were revered in scientific circles, naturally bringing her academic brilliance to the forefront of public scrutiny. Now Hammond realised that it tended to overshadow a toughness that imbued her person. Apart from the scholarly knowledge that she obviously carried, Samantha Carter exhibited graceful strength and perception that seemed to be gentler counterparts to O'Neill's forceful traits.

"As a matter of fact, we're just getting started," he told them, then turned to Carter. "Captain, I will be setting up a separate, non-military but secure facility where you can determine the Aegis's concern of a potential invasion. To the best of my ability, you will be provided with clones of the scientific equipment employed by the research and development team in Area 51 to aid you in your work."

Jack caught the spark of excitement returning to her eyes, the prospect of returning to her scientific work too good to turn down.

"In Washington?" She asked carefully.

"Silicon Valley. Dr. Rodney McKay had consented to set it up for you."

Sam didn't think her jaw could drop any further. "Mckay? Rodney McKay? The arrogant, self-righteous, pompous…I mean, he's actually involved in this?"

A small quirk at the corner of Hammond's lips appeared at the unexpected outburst.

"Captain, I need the help of the most brilliant and brightest in the country to counter an organisation such as the Aegis. Dr. McKay counts as one of them, and has proven himself very valuable in our investigations. In fact, I was the one who asked him to leak the story of the alien invasion just to see whether I could ruffle some feathers. What he found wasn't too far from the truth, but I think I will leave Dr. McKay to give you the detailed scientific explanations when you meet him."

He met their shocked faces and speechlessness with a steady gaze. "Dr. McKay has been busy working on what the Aegis's R&D is doing: discovering the true source of the electromagnetic radiation that has been causing massive electric power interruptions. As a matter of fact, I'm convinced that he will appreciate your input on this."

She snorted in reply, "McKay needs help being humble."

Hammond smiled patiently. "You will leave tonight, Captain. As presumptuous as this might seem, the necessary arrangements have already been made to ensure your smooth journey there."

Her excitement was palpable. "Of course. Thank you, Sir."

Jack raised his brows quizzically and guessed, "And I'm to be her bodyguard while she plays with her doohickeys?"

"As for you, Colonel," Hammond continued, "I'd like you to continue on the path that you took when you accepted your assignment in September. You found out about the Aegis. Now it's time to take them down."

* * *

Sam was rearranging the last of her belongings when his voice rang through the quiet of the house.

"Don't you just hate flying commercial?"

Jack stood at the threshold of the door to the guest room that Hammond had provided for them in the intervening hours until her flight, his hands fully jammed into his pockets.

She drew the zip of the duffel closed. "I do, but I suspect you hate it more than me."

He seemed reluctant to step into the room, as though fully cognizant of the fact that they were no longer in a space that was their own.

Straightening, she stood up and faced him. The tension was evident in his eyes, despite the casual pose he made.

She looked...different, harsher planes and lines in the soft yellow light that washed out the deeper, subtler shades. There was something altered about her appearance that he couldn't quite yet place.

Jack shrugged it off and answered nonchalantly. "Yeah, I think I do. Those god-awful cramped spaces, kids kicking the back of your seat the whole way…what's to like?"

Her smile turned wistful. Funny how she seemed to understand exactly what he felt without him needing to say it aloud.

In two hours, Stacy Hawkins would board a flight for San Jose International Airport, where she would meet a representative of M.R.M Corporation, who would then arrange yet another transport to a secure research complex in Silicon Valley.

Jack was going to stay in Washington to help Hammond do the fieldwork of rooting out the Aegis, while she would be stuck on the other side of the country working with McKay's technology.

Already she felt bereft, although he still stood in front of her, having been the person she had relied on and trusted with her life in the short span of a month.

It was nearly impossible to believe that he had once been a threat.

And now, having spent everyday with him for that brief, intense period, it was beyond hard to leave.

The indecision must have shown on her face, because in the next moment her hand was in his, his other arm encircling her waist tightly. Her arms automatically snaked around him in response.

Jack was the first to break the bittersweet silence. "Hammond's a good man. It won't be forever, Sam," he told her softly, his nose in her hair.

When she finally spoke, her voice was steady, but muffled in his thick shirt. "I know."

He shifted slightly. "Hate to break this moment, Sam, but is it just me or did your hair just turn a different colour and grow longer?"

She laughed and ran a self-conscious hand through it. Cutting her hair military-regulation short all those years ago when she became a commissioned officer had been a small but significant symbol of the life and the career she had painstakingly built for herself in the USAF. By the time she and Jack had started fleeing the Aegis, it wasn't lingering vanity that had prevented her from changing her appearance to go incognito, but rather, reluctance and fear of relinquishing the only identity that she'd known for so long.

It had taken all the lessons of the previous month to teach her that she could be much more.

Much more than just a woman who stood in a military uniform. Much more than a scientist.

A weight she hadn't known existed suddenly lifted.

She matched his light-hearted tone, swallowing visibly. "A man who notices slight changes in a woman's appearance is a keeper," she joked, "I had it changed a bit so that it'll fit my new ID."

He pulled back to examine her more closely. That was when he saw it under the dim lights. "I like it. Punk-ish, nice red tips," he declared. "And did I tell you that I like green eyes as much as blue?"

Two could play the game.

"Did I tell you that I like dark-haired men with deep, brown eyes?" She smiled and asked in retaliation, watching with satisfaction as he flushed slightly at the backhanded compliment.

"Never knew that, Carter."

A downward glance at her watch told her it was time to leave. Her indulgent smile faded as she thought of the things that still needed to be done. "I'll see you soon, Jack."

* * *

**Location undisclosed  
Washington D.C.  
15 October 1995**

Jack's temporary living quarters were no better than the motels that he had been staying in when he'd started his original mission, but comfort had never been on his priority list.

Restless, he paced the floor of the tiny room. The unfamiliar emotion, that rising tightness coiled tight as a spring in his chest made him edgy.

Feeling that same sense of numbing loss that he hadn't gotten and probably would never get used to since Charlie.

The simple truth was, he missed Carter. Missed her watching his back, missed her touch that burned across his skin, missed the way her quirky sense of humour complemented his own. Just missed her. Period.

But the major difference in this whole thing was that she was alive and well, so that had to count for something bright in his life.

It also made it easier not to think about ghosts of the past that skimmed the edges of his consciousness.

He heard the rap of knuckles on the wooden door, then stood up and turned to see Hammond enter in his dress blues, carrying a nondescript white folder bearing no official stamp in one hand and a bottle of Guinness in his other hand.

He promptly handed the bottle to Jack.

He took it in grateful surprise, toasted the General and quipped as his opening greeting, "You sure know how to make a man happy, Sir."

"It appears that Sean O'Neill had unknowingly uncovered the money trail of the Aegis in the search for his friend Luke Cowan," Hammond said succinctly, without the superficial niceties that tended to overshadow the numerous meetings among the top-brass.

"Are we talking about funding sources?"

"My intel says that Tullus, Inc. was a shell company registered under the directorship of Mr. Gordon Gray, Dr. Donald Menzel, and Dr. Lloyd V. Berkner in 1952. Do those names sound familiar to you, Colonel?"

Jack set the beer down on the bedside table. He took the folder, glanced over the report, then snapped the folder shut again. "Familiar names. The original members of the Majestic-12 group?"

"You got that right, son," Hammond confirmed. "The company's profits originated from sources that appear to have their origins in the drug cartels of Colombia and Mexico. The profits were later channelled to a top-secret project in the military for the use of strengthening national security."

Jack whistled his surprise softly, the lifted the bottle to his lips. "Son-of-a-bitch. Never thought they had it in them."

"That's not all, Colonel. From the '80s until today, the sources of funding have expanded to include the cash dividends from several investments portfolios that were diversified across several governmental bonds, rare earth metal mining companies and illegal radioactive material smuggling networks. It explains their near-unlimited resources and financial support. Tullus. Inc may be a ghost company, but several, real accounts lie behind it. Lying in the folder that you're holding are copies of investment and technology-transfer contracts. In there you'll also find bank statements confirming the cash transactions from key members' accounts to other off-shore accounts corresponding to the location of the trafficking sites."

Hammond's revelation shook him deep.

"Then that's sufficiently incriminating evidence, Sir." Jack said, slipping into the old, habitual role of addressing a commanding officer, barely noticing the form of address he'd used.

Hammond nodded. "I've officially turned the information over to the FBI, the CIA and the Secret Service for their evaluation. But it adds a whole other level of red tape."

Jack wandered over to the small window, looking out at the hushed drizzle that streaked down the pane, suddenly impatient for a life away from the trappings of the politics that lay in Washington.

"I'm assuming you've seen the President about this?"

"In fact, I have. The President will be ordering the formation of a joint-operations task force to cripple the Aegis, beginning with its key members any day now. But this joint effort includes the co-operation and the involvement of the FBI and the CIA."

Jack nodded his approval. "Cut off the head, leave the body rudderless. That's going to take a long time, seeing how deep the Aegis has infiltrated the ranks of every US Intelligence and Security Agencies."

Hammond grimaced briefly at Jack's deliberate mix of metaphors.

"It will. The first stages of the operation are the most crucial of all. The leader of this task force will be given all the back-up support that is necessary arrest the key members of the Aegis."

Jack snorted. "Pity the guy who's heading this one."

The silence from Hammond's end made him uneasy.

"George?" It was the first time Jack had deigned to use the General's given name, and its significance wasn't lost on the both of them.

It brought a chuckle out of Hammond, a twist of his lips that looked out of place on his round face.

"When the task force is formed, I'd like for you to lead their first few missions, son."

* * *

**Silicon Valley  
San Francisco, Northern California  
18 October 1995**

Five days since she had arrived in the mild Mediterranean weather that California boasted – so different from the coolness of Northern Minnesota – and since she'd been escorted into a secure complex housing the latest technology that would have ordinarily made her happily lose sleep over it.

But it was also five days since she'd seen Jack, after saying goodbye to him in the room Hammond had assigned to them in his vacation home.

Goodbyes were never easy. Especially if they'd been permanent ones and god knows she has had too many of those of late.

A slight touch on her shoulder tore her out of her reminiscence and made her react without thinking. Her soldier's instincts kicked in, honed to a knife's edge during the time she spent with Jack, causing her to whip around blindly and to swing her hands upwards until they found purchase around the throat of her would-be assailant.

The rising redness in his face made her slacken her hold immediately.

"Sorry," she gasped in wild-eyed panic, watching him choke air back into his lungs. "I'm sorry!"

She tried reaching out to him again, then pulled back when he glared daggers at her.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," McKay complained loudly as he readjusted his shirt, brushing off her raised palm of apology as he would a buzzing insect. "No need to kill a man who just wanted to ask if you're free for dinner in the communal dining hall."

"Sorry, Rodney," Sam mumbled again, trying to look as sincere as she could, knowing he would count this as yet another incident in which she owed him one. "Thought you were…you know…never mind."

"Hmm," he grunted, seemingly appeased by her explanation. He came around her lab table and peered at the readouts on her computer screen, pulling back only when she gave him an annoyed look.

"What?" He retorted in bewilderment.

Sam rolled her eyes and shook her head in exasperation. "Nothing."

The private research facilities Silicon Valley had been astounding. If anything, the level of space surveillance technology that Rodney Mckay's company had developed was well on par with, if not, better than military surveillance systems.

As Hammond had promised, she was given a lab with all that she needed to set up a closer scrutiny of the impact of solar flares and coronal mass emissions on Earth's magnetic shield. Her personal quarters held all the facilities of a VIP suite that had way more going for it than what she had expected. McKay had even volunteered his personal research files and read-outs, going as far as to offer her access to the restricted areas of his company's workrooms and equipment.

That had been the biggest surprise of all.

Briefly she wondered if he had developed a personality disorder, only to be told that Hammond had practically ordered him to surrender all resources so she could work uninterrupted.

On her second night in the facility, McKay had grudgingly brought her to dinner in a setting that was thankfully, more casual than romantic, stammering his confession that he was seeing someone, despite the unrequited lust that he felt hung over the both of them.

She hadn't known whether to laugh or sock him in the face, settling instead for an awkward note of congratulations before changing the subject to astrophysics, feeling almost relieved to see the self-importance arrogance return to McKay.

That dinner had achieved two things.

He promised never to call her a dumb blonde again; in turn, she stopped carrying a lemon around to wave in front of his face. The uneasy truce settled into a sort-of friendship, founded on science as common ground, which often meant they were constantly engaged in debates in cosmic calculations, error estimations and stellar distances.

As the days had gone by, she finally admitted to herself that McKay was absolutely essential in this task that Hammond had set up for her. His string of degrees would make any John Doe blush, and he exhibited his brilliance through a combination of vulnerability and pomposity that still annoyed her to no end.

But when it came to breaking new ground with top-of-the-line machines, McKay had done the impossible.

They'd divided the work; she had taken up the task of figuring out the source of the excess electromagnetic radiation and the atmospheric matter in the atmosphere that seemed responsible for the massive power outages around the world. McKay studied Earth's satellites and short-range sensors, dabbling in radio and signal frequency interference when he could.

It was working, thus far. They met at the end of the day to compare and discuss their findings, or at least tried to. He came into her lab to pick a theoretical-physics fight when he felt like it and she pestered him into letting her get onto some of the work that he was doing.

Bedtime was unregulated, and lonely. Still, Samantha Carter wouldn't be Samantha Carter if mornings, afternoons and evenings weren't spent working tirelessly in a lab. Jack hadn't said anything remotely like a reminder for her to keep regular hours, whether out of a lack of concern or out of respect for her own life and ways. For that, she was nevertheless thankful.

Now McKay was talking rapidly to her with an expectant, overly-excited air. It usually meant that he'd discovered something.

He held up under her scrutiny – barely noticing it in fact – and in his excitement, had swept some of her files to the concrete floor in his frenzied gesticulating.

Sam sighed and stood. "I think we should go for dinner."

"Great!"

His response was quick and enthusiastic, already leading the way to the dining hall with a hop in his step, which made her sigh again.

Dinner was either going to be interesting, or irritating.

* * *

**Offsite Officers' Quarters  
Area 51, Nevada  
18 October 1995**

It was an evening like any other, the arid air of the surrounding desert not doing anything to brighten his mood.

Major General Peter Vandenburg shrugged off his jacket, yanked at his tie and took a slow walk to his quarters, exhausted after a full day of overseeing the test of the latest craft design.

The work wasn't done yet. His executive officer had just left him some files to look through before leaving the base.

Stuck between having Curtis on his ass to re-negotiate several nuclear arms deals and the daily duties of an Air Forces General, he'd had it up to his ears. All he wanted was a bath and a hearty dinner which he'd asked to be delivered to his room.

The machine beeped green when he flashed his access card, and the blast door to the floor housing his quarters slid slowly open, letting out a rush of cold air-conditioned air which he breathed in appreciatively.

The long corridor was deserted, the other high-ranking officers having chosen to take a 737-military hop to a place that offered brighter entertainment and dining prospects at the end of the day. He wondered fleetingly if he should have caught the last hop with them, instead of choosing to be sequestered in a place in the middle of nowhere.

Vandenburg crossed the six metres separating him and the door, flashing his access card once again.

The door's electronic lock slid back and clicked open. He walked in, ready to toss his jacket and tie to the bed until what he saw made him stop short.

Jack O'Neill leant back in his black leather study chair, twirling his prized fountain pen in his fingers.

"O'Neill," Vandenburg breathed, automatically reaching for his service weapon, realising belatedly that he'd locked it away at the base.

"Sir," O'Neill greeted mildly and stood up, his features nonchalantly schooled into impassiveness. "Good to see you again."

"I know better than to ask how the hell you got in, O'Neill. But before I throw you out, maybe you would be so kind as to tell me what the hell you want?"

O'Neill's attention was completely focused on the pen. "You know why I'm here," he gestured lightly then placed the pen down carefully. "Wouldn't want to spoil your very expensive pen, General."

"Humour me, Jack. Tell me what you're doing in my room, in a secure, top-secret facility."

A brief but unpleasant smile stretched O'Neill's lips, though his face remained stoically neutral. "You made a mistake sending me after Carter, General, when you know you have more to hide than the both of us combined."

Vandenburg stood his ground and said lightly, "I don't know what you're talking about, Jack. Perhaps you shouldn't have refused the psychiatric help offered when it looked as though you couldn't shoulder the grief from the loss of your son. Now if you don't mind, get out of my quarters before I call security to storm the place for you."

Not a twitch on the other man's face.

"I'm going ask once more, Sir. Just this second time," O'Neill warned softly, walking over slowly. "Why do you think I'm here?"

"You're asking for it, O'Neill," Vandenburg growled forcefully and reached for the silent alarm switch built into the four walls.

A hand shot out and gripped his, forcefully turning it back.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," O'Neill replied steadily, his death grip on his arm not lessening. "Come now, Sir, let me give you a hint. A search of a decommissioned facility in Connecticut Yankee yielded twenty kilograms of weapons-grade plutonium-239, tested to be of Russian origin. My intel also reports that local authorities in Beaver Valley have just seized ten kilograms of uranium powder and tablets purchased from a Kazakhstan plant with no authorisation. All of which can be traced back to your name and Major General Thomas Baker. Shall I go on?"

Vandenburg staggered a bit, having found his arm suddenly free. He swung around to face his former subordinate.

"You don't know what the hell's going on, O'Neill," Vandenburg growled, "actually, you don't know shit–"

"Oh, trust me, General," Jack snapped, interrupting the beginnings of Vandenburg's tirade. "I know exactly what's going on. You think getting rid of Carter is going to solve the problem of national security. And that the trading of illegal nuclear warheads and raw materials is going to bolster Earth's pathetic defensive resources. How much more fucking misguided can you get?"

"Don't you understand that the c–?"

"Ahh – I don't want to hear it," O'Neill waved his hands theatrically, just as the door burst open with armed guards swiftly pouring into the room. "Save it for those who have the power to decide the length of time of your stay in the brig. Major General Peter Vandenburg, I'm happy to say you're under military arrest for breaching the Treaty on the Non-Proliferation of Nuclear Weapons and for operating above military and civilian jurisdiction."

As Vandenburg was being cuffed, he said darkly, "O'Neill, you bastard. Frank Cromwell warned me of it after you got your ass stuck behind Saddam's torture chamber. I should have known you could never follow orders."

The memory stung, even now as Vandenburg's words plunged him back briefly to that Iraqi dump of a prison where he lay bleeding, broken and malnourished for months on end, finally giving up hope of a rescue that had taken too long in coming.

But when help finally came, he hadn't given a fuck whether he was dead or alive, not when it seemed as though everything he'd done hadn't mattered a whit.

Jack looked at Vandenburg coolly as he was led away. "No, Sir. I was just doing my job. Whereas you weren't doing yours."


	26. Chapter 26

_A/N: It's here that I have to admit that I'm neither science nor military, so I did all the research that I could, then bent the facts quite a bit to fit my purposes. _

* * *

**Chapter 25**

**Lansing, Michigan  
21 October 1995**

The noise and lights of the city faded as the car approached the quiet and hush of the exclusive neighbourhood and rolled to a stop in a long, elegant driveway that led to a white mansion that stood impressively lit at the top of a slight incline.

Senator William Curtis stepped out of the backseat, carrying his briefcase, and hurried up the stairs to his stately home.

The house was dark and quiet, his wife and children having gone ahead to their vacation home in the Bahamas, having made him promise to join them as soon as his affairs were taken care of. He hadn't intended to renege on that promise until the news of a few days ago had thrown the media into a frenzy.

The national and international headlines were impossible to ignore, not when the news of a General's suicide in the USAF and the arrest of several others came in quick succession, shedding new light and raising soul-searching questions on the military's purpose and authority in the country.

_Peter Vandenburg. Taken into custody for illegal arms dealing. For the unlawful procurement of foreign nuclear production technology._

_Thomas Baker. Arrested for the illegal stockpile of nuclear arms._

_Special Agent Timothy Lee-Granger, Jacksonville, Florida. Arrested with a suspected connection to Baker._

_Howard Vlasov, Border protection, Homeland security. Arrested with a suspected connection to Vandenburg._

The list went on. And grew longer each day as more names appeared in the regional papers.

With a pounding heart, Curtis knew that the members of the Aegis were being rooted out, one by one, all of them confronted somehow with undeniable proof of their underground activities.

Handing his coat and briefcase to the waiting butler, Curtis took the stairs as quickly as he could. He burst through his study doors, not bothering with the lights.

He strode to the table and reached under it, bringing out a bag packed full of cash. He checked its amount, then snapped its closure shut.

It was time to go. Flee. Any place where he could remain beyond the jurisdiction of the country's laws.

The private plane was already waiting, the bank account set up and a fully-furnished apartment in any district or country that he wanted.

Curtis spied the documents detailing the activities of the higher-ranking members still lying on his study table, untouched since he left them there a day ago. Breathing a sigh of relief, he moved to pack them away when a voice rang out in the darkness.

"I hear the Bahamas is great this time of year."

Curtis whipped around just as the light switch was flicked on by an invisible hand, revealing a brown-haired man standing in a corner dressed in civilian clothes.

He hadn't met the man, only seen the pictures. But Curtis knew immediately who he was.

"Colonel Jack O'Neill."

O'Neill's tone was mocking. "The one and only. My reputation precedes me, it seems."

"What are you doing in my house, Colonel?" Curtis bit out, but O'Neill was already studying the gun that had mysteriously appeared in his hands.

He took a cautious step backward, risking a glance around to see if his security detail was anywhere in sight. Then he remembered that they were just obeying his instructions not to stray anywhere near his study.

"I could shoot you now, Curtis, place the gun in your hands afterwards and do the whole world a favour. And then no one would ever find out exactly what you've been busy with behind the scenes," O'Neill pondered aloud, ignoring Curtis's question. "But that's making it easy for you, isn't it? A bullet in the head or the chest. You'll bleed out. Or maybe even die instantly. No, I won't shoot you, Curtis. Because I want you alive so that you can live through the consequences of what you've done."

Curtis released a breath he hadn't realised he was holding when he saw O'Neill slowly lower the gun. He instantly recognised the game of cat-and-mouse that O'Neill was playing, a subtle negotiation tactic that threw off the balance of power in a conversation as each party strove to pull the stakes in his or her favour.

Seeing his advantage, he pounced.

"That's naïve of you, Colonel O'Neill. You come alone, thinking that your…little night visit is going to change anything. I'd say I'll report you to the MPs as a man gone berserk. And you know what they do to such people."

O'Neill barked a laugh. "Look around you, Curtis. Your men are gone. Locked away. Taken out," he said in sanguine humour that slowly faded into a threatening snarl. "And you know what they do to such people."

Curtis didn't miss the significance of O'Neill's words. But he wanted to hear it from the horse's mouth.

"Colonel, I'll ask again. Why are you here? If you don't give me a good enough reason, I'll have the MPs on your tail-"

"Lists," O'Neill announced expansively.

"Lists?" Curtis repeated, convinced that O'Neill had a screw loose in his head.

"You wanted an answer, you got one."

"For fuck's sake, O'Neill, if you would just get to the poi-"

"As I said before, lists. A list of names of people who stood in your way and how you got rid of them. Long, long list, might I add." the Colonel interrupted pleasantly, suddenly swerving from the matter-at-hand, having taken out a folder that he hadn't noticed.

Curtis found his head suddenly pressed to his desk with a gun pointed at his temple, his arms uselessly splayed on the sides of the table.

"But there's something more exciting that I've found," O'Neill continued casually. "A covert, second list of names and accompanying investigative reports on others who were deemed a threat to your precious Aegis. A third list of your funding sources originating from an oil firm called Tullus, Inc. And a set of reports detailing illegal arms dealings that you've signed off and endorsed before leaving your minions to do your dirty work."

Curtis's snort of incredulous laughter came out as a groan against the flat wood surface of the table. "You have a big imagination, Colonel."

O'Neill smiled in genuine appreciation when he heard that. "You betcha. Shall I go on? Your ambitions of the US presidency haven't gone unnoticed, Curtis. There's a record – or shall I say a _list_ – of what you've done or tried to do to make that happen. Get your head out of your ass, Curtis. You're not going anywhere tonight."

"Oh, I certainly plan to do so. And there's nothing, you of all people, O'Neill, can do about that."

"We'll see," O'Neill said and barked suddenly into a hidden mike. "Move in!"

The rough hand that was in his hair pulled him upright, then released the pressure. Curtis's hands went automatically to straighten the tie that had gone askew just as a group of federal agents moved into his study.

"Just to make this a bit more dramatic, Curtis," O'Neill was saying as the feds forcibly turned Curtis to face him, "there'll be a sea of reporters awaiting your statement."

"For what, exactly, O'Neill? If you leak classified documents–"

O'Neill's grin was feral. "I just simply…threw them a bone, shall we say."

Curtis didn't finish what he wanted to say. "Col-"

He was cuffed in less than ten seconds and read his Miranda rights by the feds in the next ten.

"Senator William Curtis, you are under arrest for multiple felonies, multiple acts of public corruption and for the neglect of official duties. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say or do may be used against you in a court of law."

Curtis had been convinced that it would never come to this. But the unthinkable had come to pass.

"Tag, you're it. "

Curtis looked up to see O'Neill standing quietly in a corner, looking all too sombre for a man who had just orchestrated his arrest.

As he was led out of his mansion, the camera flashes from his front lawn damn near blinded him. Curtis pushed his way through the swarm of reporters to the awaiting car, avoiding a deluge of never-ending questions.

A firm hand on his shoulder pushed him into the back seat. The slam of the car door shut out the incessant reporters' voices, leaving him in near silence.

Curtis stole a last glance up at his study through the passenger window, seeing the room already dark and devoid of human presence.

O'Neill was nowhere to be seen.

* * *

**Undisclosed Location  
Washington D.C.  
22 October 1995**

It was some payback for all who had died in the Aegis's wake, Jack figured as he strolled into the compound lost in thought.

But where justice was duly meted out, it never brought back the dead.

Jack stopped short when he saw Hammond waiting for him.

Not that he didn't like the temporary job or anything, but if it was going to be yet another strategic briefing with the federal agents, the JAGs and the other what-nots for the previous arrests they had made, he swore he was going to go AWOL for that one.

"Good job, Jack," the General said as a greeting, handing him a folder of the latest newspaper reports of the military arrests.

"Thank you, Sir."

It was amusing to read the media's love of the dramatic, each headline sounding more ridiculous than the previous one.

_Michigan Senator William Curtis arrested_

_The military conspiracies in the U.S. Government and the Senators who back them_

_The suspected mafia connection in the U.S. Military comes to light after Senator William Curtis's arrest_

He barked a laugh when he saw the last one. The media hadn't anything close to the full story.

"We have news that Senator Curtis is going to face an impeachment bid, on the account of multiple felonies with no regard for the rule of law or transparency. He will also be brought up on charges for violating the treaty on the Non-Proliferation of Nuclear Weapons as well as the U.N arms-trade treaty," Hammond said in satisfaction. "This is going to keep him away for a long, long time."

"Good to hear that, Sir. What about the rest of them?"

"Once investigations are complete, Vandenburg and Baker, among others, will be facing criminal trial and prosecution," Hammond said, contemplating the coming events that would likely change the face of the military. "Administratively, this leaves all of us a problem. Finding their replacements to fill the positions they've vacated."

"Good luck, Sir. Looks like it's just started for you. I'm guessing my job's done," O'Neill said candidly, tapping out a random tattoo on the folder he held. "Does this mean I can retire again? For good?"

Hammond gave him a patient look. "I know that we've agreed for Special Agent Pearson and Major Paul Davis to head this operation after you've stepped down. But the short answer would be, not quite yet, Jack. We have yet to receive conclusive reports from Captain Carter and Dr. McKay. Thus far, I have only received detailed outlines of their projects and the scans that they're slated to perform but not their results of them. If they do discover that Earth is indeed under threat, I'm going to need to recall all of my best field officers for this."

* * *

**Silicon Valley  
San Francisco, Northern California  
22 October 1995**

Sam grabbed the printout, checking its accuracy on the computer screen. She frowned in brief confusion.

The cursory knock on the door made her look up. "So it's you."

McKay grunted in response. "Hey, at least I knocked. The last time I came in, I nearly got strangled. And sometimes I wish you could be more pleased to see me. I know you're unhappy that I'm now seeing someone, but –"

He missed her brief, stunned look of disbelief and her heavy sigh of annoyance.

She finally looked away from her perusal of the report and turned her attention to him. "Not that I'm not happy to see you Rodney, but I have work to do."

He grumbled unintelligibly and protested, making her hide a grin beneath a hand. "What else do you think we do here? This facility is –"

"I get it, McKay," she replied without letting him finish and shoved a file at him. "Here, look at this."

He opened it curiously. "What's this?"

"Files that General Hammond sent over regarding Area 51's scientists' findings of the small alien craft that visited about a month ago and the reports they filed after that incident."

McKay was scanning the reports quickly. "Hmm, seems like the craft was emitting a kind of EM-pulse similar to the radiation in space caused by the so-called flares. Faint but still registered by their sensors. Leaving residual dust that resembles the interstellar dust around Earth's orbit."

"Look at the two spectrographs detailing the characteristics of the pulse, both of which showing wavelengths that are similar but not identical," Sam said, then looked at him expectantly.

McKay studied the first page of the appendix, noting the wavelengths and the frequency range of the first spectrograph. He turned the page, seeing a similar structure of the peaks and troughs of the second graph, then hummed in confusion.

"Wait a minute, the second set of spectrographs shows wavelengths with a less pronounced shape, meaning the pulses that we're getting are weaker than the first. But…but that makes no sense! I thought we were only looking at EM-pulses of the craft that landed."

"I'm not sure anymore," she confessed, standing up to take the file from him. She took a closer look at the comparison for the umpteenth time, still unable to quite make sense of it. "I initially thought assumed that both graphs were consecutive analyses of the craft's EM-pulses at 0, 0.1 and 0.2 seconds, because both sets of waves looked to be functioning in the same frequency range while sharing the same electromagnetic field."

He had also come to the same conclusion as she did. "Both shapes are not congruent, so it could only mean that there's something else here that the second graph is describing. Did the report indicate a hypothetical profile on the second spectrograph?"

"EM-pulse occurring at a level of twenty pulses per second in the second graph. The repetitive gamma signal is weak but constant, which means it's got the ability to broadcast into space."

"What? Into space?" McKay asked incredulously, "Weren't we looking at incoming rays, not outgoing?"

Sam turned the conflicting information over in her mind, trying to tease the variables into a semblance or order.

Residual, scorched atmospheric matter.

EM-pulses and signals coming from supposedly disparate entities but were similar enough that the scientists had overlooked them.

She reviewed the information that they already knew: an alien vessel hovered over Area 51's south shore about a month ago and left, leaving the hapless scientists with nothing but an EM-emittance that was almost like an alien fingerprint or energy-signature. But it probably wasn't the first alien craft sent here, as suggested by the presence of scorched atmosphere matter that she had noticed in early September.

Something else clicked in her memory, that conversation that she'd been having with Catherine early last month filtering into her remembrance.

"McKay, slightly more than a month ago, my team discovered similar remnants, even fainter than those recorded in the first spectrograph," Sam told him, watching his eyes narrow first in confusion, then in irritation.

"Why didn't you say so earlier?"

Sam ignored his annoyed question, talking her thoughts through. "The spikes in the exosphere from the emittance in early September are incredibly faint. Fainter than the one the probe sent to Area 51 gave out. The only logical explanation is that there must have been a _first_ probe sent prior the one that visited Area 51 in September," she started out slowly. "Think about it. It's likely that the first probe had likely only stayed in orbit around the Earth, which accounts for the spikes in atmospheric readings."

"Why would there be a need for two probes?" McKay objected.

"Exploratory reasons," she shrugged. "Or maybe they're searching for something. But if so…for what?"

"Wait," McKay put in, looking closely at the charts again. "Look at this."

She saw what he pointed at.

Suddenly, it sank in.

"These are incoming pulses in the first spectrograph analysis," she exclaimed, "and in the second, we're actually looking at outgoing pulses! The only explanation for it could be-"

"-the existence of two objects. The first, conducting a search for the second, hence explaining the existence of an identical pulse while emitting the residual dust as remnants of their unique fingerprints, which could only mean that the probes were looking for something that has a-"

"Distress radio beacon signal," she cut in. "With a tracking transmitter."

Sam whipped her head around to see him slacked jaw in disbelief. The growing excitement on his face must be mirroring hers.

"It's the only thing that fits," McKay said, his speech accelerating a mile a minute. "An object broadcasting a signal can be detected by another object calibrated to pick up its distress call. That's exactly what we're looking at!"

"So the first probe in orbit determined the planet's location, the second one that came a few weeks later – the one Area 51 encountered – was in all likelihood," she speculated, "a second confirmation of what the first probe had already recorded. Maybe they were both receiving devices, triangulating the location of the distress signal."

He was already wagging his finger in realisation, hurrying over to a computer terminal in the lab and starting to type furiously.

Sam grinned at the heady feel of discovery, the rush of blood to the head making her slightly dizzy as her excitement grew. "Let's assume that both crafts are probes that have been sent because they had picked up a distress signal from…what? And…where?"

"I'm on it. Now that we know what we're looking for, I can write a script detailing search parameters for the EM-surveillance program and set it to triangulate the exact location of the transmitter. Just give me...thirty seconds."

Another piece of the jigsaw slid into place. "McKay, if the probe hovered over Groom Lake, wouldn't it – in all probability – mean that the distress signal is coming from…somewhere inside the facility?"

He was muttering to himself as he worked, and she wondered if he'd heard her. "Nearly there. Tracking, done. Triangulating. Now. Creating the surface co-ordinates in three, two, one and…it's coming from – what?! But it can't be…it can't-"

"Rodney-," she warned.

He'd taken a doubtful step back from the terminal, looking at her strangely. "The distress signal originates from an object deep underground in Area 51."

"Oh my god." Sam slumped back in her chair, the ramifications of McKay's statement hitting her like a sledgehammer to the head.

The Roswell incident of 1947 hadn't just introduced the idea of extant extraterrestrial life; instead, it had proven that it was just the beginning of the story.

It was proof positive that there had been more out there for millions or even billions of years than humankind could ever hope to understand, let alone interfere in. And that the myopic vision of protecting Earth by attempting to seal its open borders to the universe was eventually going to be a price too high to pay.

Suddenly, it occurred to her that McKay had actually entered her lab a few minutes ago for a reason, something that they'd never gotten around to discussing.

"McKay, before I go running off to Hammond with this news, what was it that you actually came in here for?"

He looked flummoxed for a second until he remembered. "Oh, right. I just wanted to show you this. Remote sensing data just obtained from several satellites probes, radio telescopes and hourly print-outs from the SBV sensor."

She took the readout from him. "Any anomalies in the readings?"

"All of them capture a broad spectrum of electromagnetic radiation in space, some more than others," McKay said. He grabbed the readout back from her, impatiently turning the pages until he found the graphs and the readings that he wanted her to see. Handing it back to her, he pointed out, "But look at this."

She looked at him sceptically. "Radio waves? Again?"

"I knew you'd think that," he crowed briefly. "But look at it again carefully. It's an anomaly of a radio wave found in space, even though they share the same basic characteristics. They have the same approximate scale and very low frequency; essentially, all the typical things you read about the radiation emitted by celestial bodies in deep space. All of which are strong enough to penetrate the atmosphere and disrupt the power lines here. But this particular one has a wavelength that is much longer than what's been recorded before, propagated from some part of the Milky Way that our own deep space radars haven't yet determined. Now we already know that theoretically, there pretty much isn't a limit for long wavelengths. I mean, look, they can be the size of the universe itself –"

"Hang on, Rodney," Sam stopped him, looking more closely at the data. "The emission has been increasing exponentially in all read-outs, occurring at a frequency of 0.1 Hz, gradually increasing to 12 Hz in the last three days."

"Hmm," he grunted and pulled the paper from her again, realising that he'd missed that particularly obvious fact from one of the graphs.

"I've never seen anything like this before. And they also seem to correspond to the increase of light and atmospheric emissions and the infrared output, all of which combine uniquely to form–," she trailed off, thinking of the far-reaching implications of that particular statement.

"-an energy signature," McKay finished her thought animatedly. "Or rather, energy signatures. All of them bear the same kind of emittance with only very slight variations in the propagation process. They also match the wave structures of the EM-pulses coming from both probes." His face turned worried. "But given the magnitude of this emittance…this would suggest a presence of a several celestial bodies moving through space or –"

Sam twisted her fingers together, quelling her first instinct to run to the phone and call Hammond with a load of information that could have devastating consequences for Earth's survival. But all she did was nod calmly and said, "McKay, before we even jump to any conclusions, is it possible to extend the range of our sensors and satellites so that they could provide a clearer picture, or maybe even some kind of visual verification of the unknown stellar bodies?"

"Hey, why is it that everyone expects me to work a miracle when someone or something's in trouble? I know that –"

He stopped abruptly when he saw her glare, then crossed to the same computer terminal to open multiple scanning programs.

"Is this the same McKay who used to say 'Difficult takes a few seconds; impossible, a few minutes'?"

"Yeah, well, never mind," he rushed to counter her mocking quip. "It's not that easy, but I'll try."

She stole a glance at the large clock that hung on the right wall of her lab.

Five minutes and 55 seconds.

Six.

Six minutes and 34 seconds.

"Enlarging scale of scanners," McKay announced. "Amplifying the waves from the deep space satellite readout."

She clenched her fists unconsciously in dread and anticipation, a tight knot growing in her chest.

For the next few seconds, the only sounds in the lab were the constant whirrs and ticks of the computers, punctuated only by McKay's intermittent typing.

"Oh my god. "

"What?" She barked impatiently.

"The deep space radar is detecting a group of extraterrestrial stellar crafts stationed at the edge of the Milky Way galaxy, all of which bear the same electromagnetic pulses that are strong enough to reflect through this part of our solar system. Only a fleet of ships emitting this much of radiation could have caused such electrical outages on Earth. And if you ask me, it's likely that the alien probes were sent from one of those ships and now that they've found us….oh no, no, no…"

He clicked on a tracking diagram, closed it and clicked on it again, as though he hadn't quite believed the readings it was giving him.

"Rodney!"

McKay finally turned to her, his eyes wide with trepidation. "The stellar fleet isn't as stationary as I thought. It looks like they've set a course for Earth. Estimated time of arrival: twenty hours. "

And Earth had no ready frontline of defence.

"Son-of-a-bitch."

"You've said it."


	27. Chapter 27

_A/N: This chapter was inspired by so many episodes of SG-1 and is in its own way, a tribute to Star Wars and the movie Independence Day. To those who are still reading and reviewing, I'd like to say a very Happy Christmas and a big thank you. We're almost done. _

* * *

**Area 51, Mission Command Centre  
South Neveda  
23 October 1995**

He was back in Nevada again, five days after having infiltrated the officers' quarters to apprehend Vandenburg, a sense of déjà vu running through him as he walked down the corridors of the top-secret facility in dark green BDUs.

Jack turned and entered the main briefing room.

Hammond had received a call last night from Sam and McKay after which he had immediately called the President to relay the news of approaching interstellar space vessels assumed to be hostile.

He'd been there, had seen the pallor of Hammond's face as he spoke with the President, had sat next to him when they took the military transport to Nevada as Hammond began the process of deployment. And he knew that Earth was in all likelihood, defenceless despite their best efforts in international mobilisation.

But it didn't mean that they wouldn't try.

In hindsight, Jack believed that Carter's Stargate project could have offered them in equal measures plagues and diseases yet unknown, but also technology powerful enough to counter alien attacks. But even that would have taken time, and the whole project had ground to a halt before it could even begin.

This had left them with no option but to employ all their troops and hope that the international mobilisation would stand a chance against technology far beyond what their best engineers could even understand, let alone interpret.

In the subsequent mass-mobilisation, Hammond had insisted to the top brass that he and Sam had been working undercover for him all the time, in a move that effectively and officially positioned them as his subordinates.

Jack had to admit that it was a brilliant tactical manoeuvre and one that for now, overlooked the court-martial that he and Sam were most probably facing over their unexplained flight from the Aegis. Their crimes supposedly exonerated, it had also meant that their official ranks were suddenly, very much in place. It was something he'd rather not give too much thought to right now.

But while he was grateful for Hammond's cover, a part of him couldn't help but cynically wonder if Hammond would turn the both of them in when it was all over.

Jack repeated the last phrase in his mind.

When it was all over.

Assuming there was still a habitable Earth at the end of it.

He glanced around the briefing room that had been transformed into a mission command centre, belatedly realising that part of it was filled to the brim with the most important honchos in the USAF. A long table lined with computers and radar-equipment was positioned to left side of the room, already filling up with printouts of deployment schedules. Large screens attached to the walls reported telemetry findings by the second, all of which were copied and analysed immediately by Area 51's scientific team. Countless technicians were already stationed at their consoles, busy setting up networks that linked international security systems and satellite feeds. Rows of chairs had been hastily arranged in front of the table, facing several protective glass cases that took centre stage in the large, cavernous room.

They were objects of cautious scrutiny by those who had never seen them before.

Jack stood inconspicuously at the back and saw Hammond walk in accompanied by his aides.

The General raised a hand in attention, wasting no time on preliminaries.

"Gentlemen, the purpose of this emergency briefing is to inform you that Earth is under threat."

Murmurs of disbelief followed Hammond's opening statement.

Undeterred, Hammond continued, "I assure you that the situation is more dire than you think. But to fully understand this requires intimate knowledge of the Roswell incident, which I'm sure, is a story most of you are familiar with and one that has been much fodder for conspiracy theories. For now however, I would suggest that you rethink all that you have previously believed. In 1947, two alien space vessels crashed in a remote ranch in New Mexico. In response to the crash, a top-secret research and development team was formed under the authority of President Harry Truman to recover and study the remains of mere metal remnants and parts of the alien beings who piloted them. What you now see in these glass cases in front of you, gentlemen, is proof of that crash."

A collective gasp sounded all over the room, the noise steadily increasing to excited murmurs and tones of disbelief. The revelation – first given by Kerry and now by Hammond – still caused Jack's own breath to catch.

Hammond held his hand up for silence again. "For fifty years, USAF civilian scientists who have studied these remains haven't been able to decipher anything other than an undiscovered element used in the make of their crafts. Unbeknownst to them, a distress transmitter signal had been built into one of the ships that crashed, drawing the attention of a probe to the very spot above the surface of Groom Lake's southern shores last month. Further research has shown that the probe was a receiver that had been sent by a fleet of unknown proportions stationed at the edge of our galaxy, presumably transmitting its findings of the downed alien vessel back to them. Reports on the similarities of their EM-pulses have concluded that the alien armada emits an identical energy signature to one of the crafts that crashed. The latest telemetry findings suggest however, that the fleet is now heading for Earth, with an ETA of fifteen hours. We will assume that the reasons for which they're coming are all hostile, unless otherwise proven."

The room broke out in shouts and shocked exclamations, quietening down only when Hammond raised his hand the third time for a time-out.

Jack smirked into his fist that he had pressed against his mouth. He had to hand it to Hammond to reveal only the necessary details while keeping quiet about the presence of the secret organisation that had, for too long, guarded this information. It was hard not to feel more than a stitch of admiration for the man's iron grip of calm and control in this situation.

Hammond gestured to a glass-encased exhibit housing a silvery-gold scrap of metal. "Our scientists have confirmed that the distress signal has been emitted by this vessel since the crash in 1947 but were unable identify the signal up until a few hours ago."

"What about the second craft that crashed in 1947?" A voice shouted out quickly from the mass of Generals. "Does it have the same make as the first? If so, why wasn't a distress beacon built into it?"

Hammond acknowledged the pertinent question. "General Colville, I apologise if I didn't make that clear. The second craft appears to belong to another species, the make of which is also beyond our ability to decipher. It is unfortunate that the intentions of the second race of beings are as obscure to us as they have ever been. However, as interesting as this is, gentlemen, there is no more time at present for speculation or any more discussion, seeing as there is a more immediate threat in the approaching fleet of alien ships," he said, then continued, "The President is mobilising every branch of the military, including the Guard and Reserve. The Air Force efforts will be coordinated through this facility. Area 51 is believed to be ground zero, seeing as the alien probe had chosen the site of the crash as its target. As we speak, our officers are building a secure link to AF SATCOM for encrypted communications to all Air Force bases and to NASA, as well as to all of the military command centres around the world expressly set up for this large-scale operation. There will be several fleet of fighters standing by to launch an offensive if necessary from our aircraft carriers stationed in American waters and in American-protected territories, all of which are armed with nuclear warheads should the need arise. I will stress however, that deploying nuclear weaponry will be our last possible course of action in view of the widespread fallout, and executed only by Presidential order."

A murmur of disquiet rose in the room just as Hammond's aides started distributing personalised dossiers to several people in the room.

He waited until they took their folders.

"What most of you are reading now are the duties expected of you in this time-critical operation. Your transport is already waiting for you by the time you leave this base."

Hammond took a look around at the faces that had turned ashen as the situation sank in. He was no fool; Carter's and McKay's combined reports were damning enough for him to know that Earth stood no chance against a massive alien offensive.

Still, he didn't want to think of the consequences.

"Dismissed and Godspeed, people."

* * *

A feminine voice called out to him as he exited the briefing room. Seeing the crowd surrounding Hammond, he turned into a corridor that was the least populated with lingering Generals and other important people to locate the source of the sound.

"Jack!" Was it…?

He whipped around in a haste to face _her_, drinking in her face like a thirsty man who drank in the desert.

It had only been ten days too long. It had been enough.

In the relative privacy of the corridor, she ran into his arms, her own winding tight around his neck, uncaring of whoever saw them.

It seemed like an eternity since she'd last seen him, releasing him only to speak, but keeping their fingers intertwined. "What are you doing here?"

"Nice to see you too, Sam," he tried to joke in an unsteady voice, pulling back to cast a searching look at her face and her suspiciously bright eyes. "Hammond's asked me to lead the 395th squadron from here in the first aerial offensive."

Her eyes widened in shock. "You've been busy, Colonel. I want to know all about it."

He winked at her, but didn't feel like releasing his hold on her yet. "Later. When did you get here?"

"An hour ago. McKay and I took the military hop from San Jose as soon as Hammond recalled me here. We'll be in the mission command centre relaying the telemetry and radar scans to the squadrons."

"Wow, big job," he quipped, drawing a smile from her.

Not that he'd seen the work she had been doing in Silicon Valley, but if the reports from Hammond were anything to go by, he'd bet his rank that she had pulled more miracles out of her head than anyone else. That McKay guy notwithstanding.

"Wish I was going with you. I hope there's someone out there watching your six," she said, looking ruefully at him.

Jack's answering grin was genuine but unexpected. "Major Charles Kawalsky, USAF. Served with me in '82. Good man. Had Hammond recall him."

Relief swept over her, leaving her lightheaded. She questioned impishly, "Does he watch your six as well as I do?"

His grin didn't fade, but there was a light in his eyes that she hadn't quite seen before. "You betcha'. A close second behind you, at least."

Charmed inexplicably by his answer, she rolled her eyes fondly. While those interminably long ten days had given her the opportunity to immerse herself in the work, an indestructible habit as long as there was science involved, it had also brought several things into perspective.

Apart from their rocky beginning, he'd always been there. Had been that amazing, unmovable pillar of support when reality sank in as she dealt with the loss of Catherine, of the Payners…of everyone else who had unjustly suffered as the collateral damage in the Aegis's bid to get to them. And he'd still managed to be a constant companion as he dealt with his own pain that she hadn't then known about. It was always Jack whom she'd thought about when her mind wasn't occupied by theories and readings. And instinct told her that it would be him for a long time to come.

But there hadn't been any guarantees then when they had fallen into each other. Just like there weren't any now as Earth stood at the brink of destruction. In their time together, they'd both steered clear of any declaration of sorts, choosing to express what they felt through touches and shared looks, yet their easy, wordless communication, while precious, hadn't really pledged anything of permanence to each other.

An alarm sounded through the base, followed by an announcement for all pilots to get to the airfield immediately.

The timing couldn't have been more wrong.

In that selfish instant, Sam wanted to halt the passing of time, to keep this infinitely precious moment between them. A moment that was quite possibly, their last.

But the world needed Jack O'Neill more than she did.

Instead, all she did was pat his cheek and tell him, "Good luck. See you later, Jack."

His eyes held that same promise. "See you later."

* * *

_"__Mission command, this is squadron leader. Pre-flight check complete."_

The elevator wouldn't go fast enough.

_"__Mission command, this is Cat-1. Pre-flight check complete."_

Sam was out and running before the elevator doors had fully opened on the level where the command centre was situated, taking a radio and an earpiece that McKay immediately handed out to her. Adjusting the frequency, she caught the middle of the 395th squadron pre-flight checks.

The first of the front-line defence forces.

She watched in breathless anticipation as the visual feed shifted to show the squadron lined up Elephant Walk style, already cruising down one of the longest runways built in Area 51.

Through the bubble canopy of the first plane lined up, she thought she could see Jack.

_"__All systems operational, Mission command."_

Hammond nodded in apparent satisfaction. "Hellion Cats, you are cleared for takeoff."

_"__Roger that, General. OK, boys, get your asses in the air."_

_"__Hell, yeah."_

_"__Shut up, Fenster."_

A whoop sounded from some other hotshot in an F-16 in reply to the smart mouth in Cat-10, followed by a chorus of cheers and a spontaneous song that all too soon degenerated into _The Simpsons_ theme song.

_"__I'd like less talking, more action."_

Jack.

A chorus of chastened voices mumbling "Sorry, Sir" and "Yes, Sir" echoed through the command centre.

Beat.

_"__But the Simpsons song was great."_

From the corner of her eye, she saw Hammond trying to suppress an amused smirk.

A trace of a smile crossed her own lips as muffled sniggers resounded in the room, briefly lifting the edginess that has been in the air ever since Hammond had called the emergency briefing. Sam studied the screens for their flight paths, seeing for the first time – yet completely unsurprised – by just how good a commander Jack, no,_ Colonel O'Neill_ really was.

The F-16s broke formation in the atmosphere once they hit Mach 2.2, spreading their defensive cover over a preliminary radius of 100 km over the Mojave.

Jack's voice came over the radio again, gravelly over the increased static.

_"__This is squadron leader. All birds report."_

Cat-12 was talking_. "All clear, Sir."_

_"__Cat-8 reporting."_

_"__Cat-10 reporting."_

_"__Just another beautiful day in Oz."_

_"__Smart mouth, Kawalsky."_

"Squadron leader," Hammond interrupted the air-borne communication, "this is Hammond. EM-inference in the upper atmosphere is greater due to the impending arrival of the alien fleet."

_"__Copy, Mission command."_

_"__Colonel, radar tracking indicates fifty unidentified vessels heading for atmosphere. ETA: twenty minutes." _Kawalsky's voice rang out over the worsening static.

_"__Sir, this is Cat-5. Visual confirmation of enemy vessels. Transmitting data now."_

Sam hollered, hoping her voice carried to the man who sat in another corner of the command centre. "McKay, you've got to boost the signal of our sensors and radars now!"

"I'm trying, I'm trying!"

Hammond immediately dispatched two other waiting squadrons into the air, his forehead creased with a firm line of worry. "Colonel, we're sending aerial backup now," he said.

_"__All birds, assume offensive position!"_

_"__Oh, goody."_

_"__Yes, Sir."_

_"__Shut it, Ferretti."_

_"__Copy, squadron leader."_

The static cleared on the screens for a second, the radar coverage displaying the appearance of an alarming number of smaller fighters moving off in various directions.

Sam spoke immediately. "Colonel, our screens show a cluster of radar blips separating from the fleet of ships. Incoming alien fighter crafts from point eight-five."

_"__Copy that, Carter. Hold your positions, Fenster! You too, McLeish! Lorne, cover Kelly."_

_"__Yes, Sir!"_

_"__Coming in, three o'clock!"_

_"__What? Where?"_

_"__I don't see them, but I can hear them!"_

A piercing whine came through her speakers soon after, rising in volume quickly enough to send a sharp jolt of pain to her ears. She whipped off the microphone and headphones on instinct, seeing the rest of the technicians do the same.

Through the harsh blare of static and the whines from the enemy ships, Hammond's voice rang out through the failing communication systems. "Squadron leaders, this is Mission command. Our frequencies are going to be jammed completely as the fleet approaches. Assume offensive positions, but do not open fire unless enemy vessels begin an attack. I repeat: do not open fire unless enemy vessels begin an attack."

_"__Copy that, General."_

_"__Yes, Sir."_

Horizontal scrolling lines ran across the radar screens, severing the communications in bursts of static. The best of their pilots were now flying blind and Hammond hoped that none of them had decided it was a good day for blind heroics.

Then he realised that he had been counting on Jack O'Neill to prevail, to beat the odds, to come through when no one could. And that was hope enough to go on.

_"__Is that -?"_

Kawalsky.

_"__Shit!"_

_"__Holy crap!"_

_"__Hold your positions, Cats. We'll be in targeting range in fifteen seconds."_

Jack's coolly given order was interrupted by another low whine that pierced their earpieces.

Swarms of enemy interceptors descended like a locust plague that consumed its way through arable land, their weapon platforms engaged and firing.

_"__My god, look at those…things!"_

_"__All birds, fire at will. Repeat: fire at will."_

"Sir, we are establishing visual feed from deep space SBV."

On the monitors in the command centre, the darkness of space receded to reveal an alien fleet that was beyond magnificent and deadly; each ship, shaped with the dramatic curves of a manta ray, spanned nearly four miles in length and two across. A slew of smaller alien fighters, burnished a silvery-gold, exited the first mothership, preparing for a second wave of assault.

A gasp sounded through the command. Hammond nodded at a technician who patched him through to the F-16s.

"Squadrons, this is Hammond. A second fleet of alien fighters has just been deployed from the mothership."

"I guess that blows Hammond's first order to pieces," Jack muttered to himself, banking a hard right, barely avoiding clipping the left wing of his plane against an alien ship that had shot straight at him.

_"__Hellion Cats, this is squadron leader. We are being attacked. I repeat, we are being attacked. Your mission priority is to defend the base's location."_

_"__There's one on my tail, I can't shake them!"_

_"__Goddammit, Dunst, you're trained better than this!"_

_"__Colonel, three enemy ships at nine o'clock. Closing in."_

_"__Got it, Kawalsky. I see 'em._

Jack broke left and forced the plane into a defensive spiral, feeling the G-forces press him back hard into the seat. Then he turned sharply into another alien craft's line of attack, accelerating skywards. The second ship flew immediately into the first; the resulting explosion was a blinding orange ball of fire that his F-16 barely scraped through.

The third ship had gotten back on his tail. He pitched back, locating the target after the roll, firing once. The rounds bounced harmlessly off a translucent, blue, reflective buffer surrounding the ship.

_"__Damn it! Those ships have shields on them!"_

_"__Sir! I won't reach you in time. The angle's too steep-"_

_"__I can't shake him, Kawalsky! I'm going in!"_

The F-16 soared, then barrelled and rolled, twisting and descending low into the sharp and narrow edges of the surrounding Mojave canyon, barely missing an outcropping of rock. Its pursuer followed, mimicking Jack's manoeuvres with relative ease.

_"__We've lost Kingsley and McLeish."_

Jack ignored the tight knot forming in his stomach when he heard Cat-4's sombre report, willing his own concentration not to falter.

Then he banked left and shot out of the canyon on a flight path that the enemy ship failed to copy precisely. It clipped its sides against the vertical rock formation, the damage to its wing causing the entire ship's blue shield to flicker, then fade out completely.

_Yes!_

Pitching back, Jack fired again. His second shot tore a hole through its hull, forcing the vessel from its flight path into an uncontrollable hurtle towards the ground, wrapped in a ball of flaming metal and smoke.

_"Take that, son-of-a-bitch." _Switching frequencies, he shouted his orders to the rest of the squadrons. _"This is squadron leader. Time to get creative, boys. Destroy their shields first by using a distraction."_

_"__Copy, squadron leader."_

_"__Copy, Sir."_

In the distance, he saw several plumes of explosions, hoping to god that they hadn't lost more of their own.

The reports that came in a few seconds later made his heart sink.

"Command, we've lost Miller!"

Shit.

"Sir, Clark is unreachable."

_"__Roger that, Lorne."_

Dimly, he heard the frantic shouts of the other pilots who shared the same frequency on his communications unit reporting the slow decimation of their squadrons by the relentless attacks.

_Grayson.  
Morgan.  
Stewart.  
Collins._

Jack took a deep breath. _"Mission command centre, this is Hellion Cats Squadron leader, do you read?"_

The sound of his voice resonated through the speakers, cutting through the whine of the attacking ships and the static.

In the command centre, Sam sat upright and toggled the transmitter switch for better reception of his broadcast, tensing at the weariness in his manner that was unmistakably bleeding through.

_"__We copy, Squadron leader."_

Hammond had moved to the nearest screen, listening intently to the report through the crackling distortion.

"Colonel O'Neill, what's happening?"

"_We are outnumbered, I repeat, we are outnumbered. Our missiles and rounds cannot penetrate their shields."_

The sharp pang of regret dug into her chest when she heard his words. She stared at the screen sightlessly, unable to speak, wondering if they'd spent weeks escaping the clutches of the Aegis only for him to die in an alien ship attack.

Hammond didn't hesitate. "Give the order for retreat. Our ground troops on stand-by will provide some aerial cover for you."

_"__Copy, Sir."_

"Squadrons 603 and 599, you have been given the order to retreat."

It was Jack again. _"All birds, assume defensive configuration. Come around and reform. We are outnumbered, I repeat, outnumbered. Return to base. I repeat, return to base."_

_"__Aye, Sir."_

_"__Copy, Squadron leader."_

_"__Sir?"_

_"__That's an order, Kawalsky."_

As the rest of the cats broke and swung around in response to his order, Jack had that sinking feeling that it wasn't going to end well.

In the command centre, the wail of a new set of alarms sent the technicians frantically consulting their terminals.

"General," one of them stood and sombrely informed Hammond, "Sensors detect the enemy fleet deploying a vessel heading for Area 51, ETA forty-two minutes. It's a ground offensive, Sir."

Hammond nodded grimly. Then he reached for the red telephone.

Amidst the firestorm, Jack held the line of retreat, sweeping smaller and smaller arcs around the rest of the Cats. His radar detected the other squadrons doing the same in the distance, their commanders sweeping the same arcs as he did.

His radio cackled to life again.

"Squadrons, this is Mission command. Another fleet of fighters have broken atmosphere. Coming your way in point three one."

_"__Yeah, see 'em."_

A third wave of enemy fighters, smaller than the first, emerged from the atmosphere, their flight paths intersecting the retreating squadrons' scramble to safety.

_"__This is squadron leader. Watch your tails. Incoming fire. Twelve o'clock. Hold the retreat."_

A beep alerted Jack to two alien crafts that were beyond his radius of cover, but were closing in too quickly from the flanks. From that distance, their combined firepower would do considerable damage to the base and the rest of the retreating planes. Hastily keying in several numbers into the navigational computer, he sought to calculate the last-ditch options available to him for retreat and evasion.

There were none.

Jack briefly checked that the rest of the planes were back to safety, then took another look at the screen in front of him.

The collision course was already determined, leaving him only the option of pilot-ejection.

He patched communications back into the command centre, relaying the distress signal from his plane.

_"__Mission command, this is Hellion Cats squadron leader. I'm surrounded by enemy ships. Retreat is impossible. I repeat, retreat is impossible. I'll be holding off the last two ships from here." _His tone became hesitant, quieter. "_Tell Carter that-"_

Static overpowered the lines of communication between the squadrons and the base, cutting off Jack's last few words.

Hammond spoke through the din. "Understood, son."

At the sound of his voice, Sam stood up abruptly in shock and incredulity, oblivious to the surprised looks and speculative glances turned her way.

There wasn't any other…he just couldn't…

No way.

There was no _fucking_ way in hell this was going to happen. Not on her watch.

"Colonel, I'm going to plot a by-pass for you. Stay on course. I just need a few seconds," she told him with heated determination, her fingers flying over the keyboard, already in the process of creating a script that was near halfway complete. "And whatever it is you wanted to say, _Sir_, you can tell me in private yourself, when you return."

The cackle of their radio communications told her that he was still listening.

_"__Not this time, Carter,"_ he said and paused. _"I'm sorry, Sam."_

Another burst of static signalled the severance of the communications unit in Jack's F-16.

The retort she was about to make died halfway in her throat when, in the next second, the green dot displaying Jack's F-16 disappeared from the screens.


	28. Chapter 28

_A/N: Have some faith. I like happy endings. Nearly there. _

* * *

**Chapter 27**

**Area 51  
South Nevada  
23 October 1995**

_Jack._

Duty warred with grief as she stared blankly at the radar screen on her terminal, trying but not quite succeeding in gaining control of the tempest of emotions that refused to be calmed.

"Sam? Er…Sam?"

It was McKay's light, reassuring touch on her shoulder that anchored her back in reality, a look of sympathy so incongruent on his features that it made her insides ache anew with the already-familiar pang of loss.

"Come on, Sam. We still need you here. It's not over yet," he gently told her. "He was a soldier, a leader, and he would have wanted you to continue on."

His words dimly filtered into her mind, its soft calmness fighting against the overwhelming despair that was edging its way in.

Dead.

Jack was dead.

Blown apart in an exploding F-16 while protecting his squadron. She'd always known it was a possibility. Still, nothing could have prepared her for the expected outcome.

McKay was right. Jack would have expected her to soldier on, to put on that game face and push on. Until her last breath was forced from her.

With a gargantuan effort, she nodded and drew from an inner reservoir of strength she hadn't known existed, turning to study the screens again.

And did a double take.

"Deep-space sensors detecting another cluster of ships that has appeared in Earth's orbit. Establishing visual feed."

"Is that…" McKay started out, then trailed off, dumbfounded by the sight.

All Sam could do was nod once in mute amazement as the screens shifted again to the cluster of new arrivals.

The four ships that had completed their jump out of hyperspace were all sleek lines of dark metallic grey that seamlessly blended the aesthetic and the technological, each shaped like a small 'T' that was supported by two large, rear-propulsion thrusters. Dwarfed by the larger greenish-gold ships, two of the battle cruisers positioned themselves at the back of the manta fleet, and another two in front, like a David to a Goliath.

It was one of the most brilliant sights that anyone could have seen.

The meaning was clear. Somehow, help was on the way.

* * *

Going out in a blaze of glory.

Dying to protect his country or maybe even the world – how sweet that would sound on paper.

Or on his gravestone.

It was sure as hell a lot more preferable to dying with a bullet in his head.

Jack had been that man a few months ago, wanting to end his life in obscurity, having thought it would be a fitting end after his son had died because of him. But now that he was facing certain death, he knew without a doubt that there was merely cowardice in that act that he'd mistakenly assumed to be justified recompense.

The arid desert landscape, now filled with the buzz of fighters both alien and local, whizzed past his canopy.

In his years of service, he'd come to terms with the fact that there was always the chance of never returning from the field, but he never thought that the moment would sneak its way in, now, not when he'd finally, finally decided that he truly had something else to live for beyond Charlie and Sara.

He studied his radar. Red blips signalling two rapidly approaching crafts. He banked left, then rolled right again, trying to shake them, but they'd stubbornly stayed on his tail. And now they were closing in, weapons engaged and firing.

A beam from one of the ships caught the F-16's hydraulic systems, sending the plane into a nosedive despite his last-ditch efforts to stabilise the systems.

_Engine failure_, the monitor read. _Eject_.

Even if he launched himself out of his seat, there was no way in hell he'd survive parachuting straight down near ground-zero, not when the enemy ships still circled for prey within a 100km radius.

But Sam's last words to him still rang in his ears. She hadn't been ready to give up. He'd heard her desperation, her determination.

An unfamiliar emotion bloomed in his chest, as painful and as glorious as the revelation surfaced. Gone was that man who looked for death because of his chequered past; in its place was one who suddenly couldn't bear the thought of dying without having more of her in the days, weeks or months to come.

In the midst of death and destruction, he knew then, never more certainly, that he wanted to live.

He'd live, for her. Or would die trying.

Jack reached up to the ejection levers just as he heard the sounds of the beginnings of an explosion in the engines.

In the orange glow of superheated gases and fuel, he swore he saw a blinding white light engulf him just as the searing heat became unbearable.

* * *

The light disappeared into black bits that floated in front of his retinas for a few seconds. When his vision slowly cleared, Jack found himself half-squatting on the highly-polished floor of…of something, still in his Kevlar flight suit and his combat helmet, with the visor drawn down and the oxygen mask still attached.

Then, as though the invisible strings holding up his frame had been cut, his knees gave out and he collapsed heavily onto the ground, the coolness of its surface seeping through the thick material of his pants.

With tentative hands, he lifted the visor and the mask, realising that the atmosphere was perfectly breathable, the air carrying a very slight salty tinge like the brine of the sea. The entire combat helmet came off his head in a more confident move as he tried to get to his feet, his legs surprisingly shaky with the drain of the initial adrenaline rush.

Where…or what…the hell was this?

Jack looked around, seeing the spacious red, black and silver interior that was lined with consoles and large screens filled with rapid scrolling runic inscriptions. Belatedly, he realised that he was standing on the bridge port of a ship that flew above the orbit of a blue-green planet that resembled earth.

Unless…that planet below really _was_ earth and he'd been somehow transported past everything – past the earth's atmosphere and the firefight taking place below – onto an alien mothership. God, he grimaced, he wished he had his gun on him despite the lingering thought that Earth's crude firearms would be, in all likelihood, useless against a hostile but advanced threat.

"You were beamed here just as your small fighter vessel exploded, human."

He whipped around, searching for the source of the voice through the organised chaos, his eyes finally picking out a silver high-backed chair at the back of the bridge, elevated and built behind a small semi-circle of control consoles.

But what, or rather, _who_ was in that chair made his mouth drop open in incredulous shock.

A small, grey alien with a large oval head and tiny body was blinking at him calmly, looking suspiciously like the fully reconstructed version of one of the creatures recovered in the classified Roswell photo bank.

"I am Thor, the Supreme Commander of the Asgard Fleet."

His lips moved of their own volition as his mind still struggled to make sense of a tiny…being speaking to him.

Words tumbled out of his mouth. Unrehearsed, honest.

"I'm Jack O'Neill. Call me Jack, or O'Neill. You actually understand what I'm saying? And where am I, by the way?"

"We speak many languages, O'Neill," Thor said evenly, "You are on the Biliskner, the flagship of the Asgard fleet. We came as soon as we heard about the Zuu'lesq invasion."

The grey being regarded the tall human who had moved cautiously from the viewing platform to stand before the commander's high-backed chair.

"So that's what they're called? Why the hell are they doing this? Does this mean you're the good guys then?"

"I have come to offer our assistance," the alien serenely announced, unperturbed by the series of questions the human had fired at him.

That was unexpected. "Really? No! I mean, that's great!"

"The Asgard are friends and protectors of all except to those who threaten the peace of the known universe. Know this. Your planet's enemy, the Zuu'lesq, are a long-lived race inhabiting the molten surfaces of the planets in the Xarraile galaxy, five hundred trillion light years from what you call your Milky Way. They are also a war-like race, part-droid and part-life form with a predisposition to hostility and conquest," Thor continued, ignoring Jack's blatant attempt of self-correction.

"The…what?"

Undeterred, the alien continued speaking. "Forty-eight of your human years ago, a Zuu'lesq _Szarweut_ engaged an Asgard starfighter in battle in this part of your galaxy. In the battle, both ships lost control and crashed on your planet. However, the great distance between the Milky Way and the Xarraile galaxy meant that Zuu'lesq's search for the fallen _Szarweut's_ distress transmission took many Zua'el cycles. The Zuu'lesq searched a quadrant of a galaxy at a time, finally finding the signal through the means of interstellar probes that are built to withstand hyperspace travel. When the probes located your planet, a Zuu'lesq fleet was sent to wage war on the race that had downed this craft."

Jack rubbed a hand over his eyes tiredly. "OK, I get a feeling I'm missing something here. They thought some pilot from Earth shot down a Zook space craft?"

"Indeed. It is the Asgard who engaged the Zuu'lesq in battle, not the humans of Earth. And for that, we must apologise for this unfounded attack. Our feud with the Zuu'lesq began a million _á__r_ ago, when the Asgard were a more combative, warrior-like race, during a time when our ancestors were different in stature and in appearance. We have changed our ways considerably since," Thor finally said, lifting a tiny finger in contrition. "We will render our help to the humans of Earth. The Asgard starships and fighters will be engaging the Zuu'lesq fleet in battle. Our weapons can and will penetrate the shields of their motherships."

Jack processed that revelation as he tried to ignore the unblinking black eyes of the Roswell grey that bore through him.

"You know, we would really appreciate your help, if your space tech is anything to go by. And not that I don't appreciate the history lesson, but the last I heard, these Zalax guys are going for a ground offensive in less that what, forty minutes? And seeing their weapons, I don't see how we're gonna make it."

The little alien tilted his large head towards Jack, looking like a patient teacher who waited for an errant student to work out his own mistakes.

"So? You guys are going to help blow them out of the sky?" He asked hopefully, some impatience surfacing in his voice. "Isn't that why you brought me up here? To tell me this?"

"We brought you up from your exploding craft because our transporter beams recognised a DNA anomaly in your genes, a strain that we have not encountered since another great race left the known universe. You, O'Neill, represent an evolutionary step forward for human development. And it is for this reason that we believe you will come to make a difference in transforming your planet's and your people's path to advancement, even though your race has much to prove before we may interact on that level."

Jack waved his arm uncomfortably in response, not entirely sure what the little Asgard really meant. All he thought to do was his job, and the last thing he wanted to have was some messianic burden placed on his shoulders – shoulders which were definitely too small to carry the whole world's fucked up problems.

Hell, he couldn't even get past his own issues to begin with.

"Thor, buddy, let's…let's just leave that for now, OK?" Jack asked pleadingly, gesturing vaguely towards the bridge windows. "We've got bad guys on our asses and that's got to be the most important thing to take care of now."

"It is your help that we need, O'Neill."

The statement made him reel back in incredulity. "For cryin' out loud, is this a joke?"

But the alien had gotten busy. From that distance, he saw Thor moving a few oval stones across his console, moving the Bilisker to complete the attack formation that the other Asgard ships had already formed.

A burst of Asgard starfighters emerged from another Biliskner-class ship heading towards Earth, in a move that left him stumped with utter astonishment. A blow from the Zuu'lesq's mothership soon shook Thor's ship, throwing him to the ground when it suddenly disappeared beneath his feet. The Supreme Commander was already forcing the Biliskner into a hard dip to draw fire away from the other Asgard ships by the time he stood up on shaky feet.

All conversation halted as the crossfire began, a brief but stunning lightshow that lit the dark heavens with energy pulses of green, orange and red. The Asgard ship deftly wove its way around the pulverised mass of rock and metal, returning fire in precise blasts that weakened and destroyed the blue layer covering Zuu'lesq's manta ray wings.

A second later, another Zuu'lesq beam hit the shields of the Biliskner, causing the Asgard battle cruiser to shudder under the burst of energy. Thor's answer was a fancier and sleeker version of an Immelmann manoeuvre that led a pursuing Zuu'lesq to accelerate into the flight path of another one.

The resulting glow of the explosion lit the Biliskner's bridge a blinding yellow.

The Asgard had style, Jack had to admit, along with a morbid but magnificent sense of theatricality.

Who would have thought?

"The other ship commanders and I will engage the Zuu'lesq's motherships in space," Thor said after a few minutes as he directed his ship away from the battle and closer towards Earth's orbit. "But it is the Szartjol, or the ground offensive transporter carrying group troops as you call it, that is heavily fortified and frequently modified by the Zuu'lesq so that it will be their deadliest weapon of all. Constructed with a newer make of shields that the Biliskner's ion cannons cannot penetrate, we would need more of your kind to ensure that the shield is first destroyed. Listen carefully, O'Neill. A symbiotic relationship exists between the Zuu'lesq soldiers and the Szartjol. Their power supply is shared and distributed along the same conduits that run through the shield generator chamber. Destroy the Szartjol, and you will also eliminate the remaining Zuu'lesq soldiers when the last reserves of their energy run out."

Jack couldn't believe his ears. If the Asgard hadn't the means to do it themselves, how then, would the lesser races cope? And since when had the Asgard started to think that he was uniquely qualified to do it?

He raised his eyebrows in question. "And how are we to do that?"

Thor gestured left.

A schematic of the Szartjol immediately appeared on the screen closest to him, the tracking red dot enlarging each section of the readout as Thor pointed out the circuitous route to the chamber housing its shield generators.

"The Szartjol's shields are reinforced with Tetrinium. It is a by-product of the Trinium refinement process that the Zuu'lesq have recently incorporated into their technology, using knowledge gleaned from the outer regions of their galaxy that is yet unknown to the Asgard. On its own, the Szartjol carries insufficient firepower, its defences being the troops that it carries as well as its shields," Thor said, flicking another stone to pull out a three-dimensional model of its engineering systems. "Once you reach the shield generators, you will find a weakness in the core system that is linked to the ship's hyperdrive system. Disconnect this link and the generators will immediately become susceptible to external pressure. "

Jack squinted at the diagrams, trying his best to commit them to memory. It didn't look too hard. But a wrong turn would trap him in a maze that he probably couldn't get out of.

The Roswell grey stepped off his silver chair nimbly and handed him a glowing white stone, delicately engraved with runes around its perimeter.

Jack studied the teardrop-shaped object, its weight surprisingly solid and heavy in his hand.

"This is an Asgard communication stone. You can contact me with this. Now I will transport you down to your base, O'Neill. Gather a team of your best warriors and destroy the shield generators. Only when you have succeeded can the Asgard weapons function," Thor spoke in farewell. "I wish you the best, O'Neill. A legacy has been bestowed on your planet. Use it wisely."

"Hang on, you're talking about the Stargate, aren't you?"

"As they say in your world, 'Good Luck'. We will meet again when the time is right."

"But you didn't say how exactly we're supposed-"

The blinding white light engulfed him once more, his last question left unanswered.

* * *

"-to get out after we…"

Talk about bad timing.

This time, when the spots in his eyes cleared, he found himself standing in the middle of the command centre, his sudden appearance and half-finished question eliciting loud gasps and wide-eyed stares from everyone in the room.

Inevitably, his were only drawn to a blue pair that belonged to a pale face only a few paces away.

"Jack?"

He hated how her voice sounded small and shaky, like a whisper lost quickly in the wind.

With a slight smile of reassurance, he asked, "Hey, Carter, how ya doin'?" Turning slowly to face Hammond, he greeted the man whom he suddenly remembered was his commanding officer. "Hi, Sir."

It was all he could manage.

"Colonel, we thought we had lost you," Hammond finally said, giving voice to the incredulous expressions that hadn't faded.

"Long story, Sir," he replied without skipping a beat. "I'll explain it all later, but now, we've got a ship to blow up. I've been given the schematics of the ship that's coming with ground troops-"

"Who gave them to you?" Hammond interrupted.

"A cool, grey guy called Thor, whose race the AF dug up in the Roswell crash. One of them, at least. The good alien."

"You were brought up to their ship?"

"Yes, Sir, and it's really the coolest thing-"

Hammond interjected, "How can we know Thor can be trusted?"

"We don't, Sir" Jack told him bluntly. "But I figured that having their help is better than having none at all. Trust me, Sir, I've seen those things out there. There's no way in hell we'll beat the bad guys ourselves without their help. Not to mention Thor saved my life. That's got to count for something, right? And with all due respect, Sir, right now, we've got to pick a team to get past the troops in the alien ship – Thor told me what must be done. But I'm going to need back-up for this, Sir. Please."

It was clear to all who studied the General's face that he was waging an internal battle. Not that Hammond didn't trust Jack. It was the unseen alien being Jack talked about in whom he found difficult to place any confidence, having merely heard about another race's decision to help Earth through the Colonel's curt and brief recommendation.

"Sir?" Carter had turned to him, awaiting his assessment. "I'd like to volunteer for this mission, if you approve."

Not for the first time, Hammond wished that he wasn't in pole position to make a decision that would ultimately impact millions of lives. But simply put, all it came down to was this: accept the alien's help and risk destruction, or risk being annihilated anyway by the invading hostile forces.

The second consequence was merely placing Earth on the slightly slower path to the same endpoint.

He gave them a brief, sharp nod. "Do it," he ordered decisively, hoping that he wouldn't live to regret it.

* * *

From their vantage point behind the low cliff face, they could see the approaching bulk of a ship as it descended.

The Szartjol broke through Earth's atmosphere with the force of level-4 hurricane winds, its sheer bulk whipping the desert sand into vortices of dust and debris. Landing in the Area 51 encampment, its shields glowed a metallic teal, a darker hue of shimmering, translucent matter compared to the light blue that had covered its fleet of small fighters.

The troop transporter was not nearly as massive as the Zuu'lesq's motherships. Blockier in form and shape, it hovered briefly above the whirling desert sands, then landed on the Nevada basin.

Ferretti whispered in awe, "God, look at the size of that thing."

"If there's anything that I learnt a while ago, Ferretti, is that size really isn't everything," Jack snapped in reply, keeping his eyes on the binoculars that he had trained on the transporter.

In the end, it hadn't been difficult to convince Hammond that he needed a solid field team to infiltrate the Szartjol.

Hammond hadn't disappointed him.

Samantha Carter had been the General's first recommendation, her scientific knowledge an asset when it came to analysing and breaking down alien technology. He had also asked for Kawalsky and Ferretti to fill the last two spots.

Hammond hadn't hesitated to recall them, quick in recognising already-existing team dynamics.

Jack couldn't have asked for a better team, vowing there and then to thank the man with a bottle of aged whisky.

The advancing Zuu'lesq army came into sight armed with pulse weapons, the ground trembling beneath their many feet. Light green-skinned with eight limbs and a long head that was more sharp teeth than anything else, they were terrifying even in appearance.

More limbs meant there were more weapons to hold and use. But more worrying was the direction in which the weapons were pointed.

"Colonel, our position is compromised," Sam spoke in turn, readying her P-90.

"Ya think?" He shot back sarcastically.

They ducked as weapons fire from the Zuu'lesq's guns flew past their heads and singed the rocks behind them.

"Shit!"

The blasts loosened the rock face, threatening a rockslide. Quickly, they threw themselves off the sides, rolling and ducking as the plasma beams burrowed deep holes in the vertical surfaces.

"Get down!"

They scattered for cover, then returned fire with all of their armoury present, activating the additional machine-powered ground systems that Hammond and Jack had gotten set up.

The M-198 howitzers howled their projectiles across the landscape, some immediately disintegrating the Zuu'lesq's soldiers, others exploding harmlessly against the Szartjol's reinforced shields.

It was gratifying to see those…things fall, even though it took lots of bullets to get one down, Jack thought as he fired, over and over, feeling the heat from the enemy's beams close to his face. At least he now knew that their own crude weapons could still inflict some damage to advanced alien threats.

By his side, Carter was doing the same, her movements with her P-90 confident and steady.

In the midst of the gunfire, Thor's voice sounded from the communications stone. "O'Neill, you must hurry. My sensors have detected an abnormal amount of Tetrinium and Neutronium in the Szartjol's storage chamber. It would seem that the Szartjol is carrying a weapon that can destroy eighty percent of the integrity of your planet's core by the deep implantation of a probe-droid that will discharge an overload of the-"

Fucking hell.

He really didn't want to hear more of that doomsday message that Thor was relaying.

"Don't give me the odds, Thor," Jack growled in response and shifted the communication stone in irritation, a motion that unceremoniously cut off the words of the Supreme Commander of the Asgard Fleet.

Just when he thought he was getting tired of the clichéd rhetoric of aliens destroying the earth, Thor had to confirm that things were getting much worse. Couldn't that grey guy have actually told him this sooner? Or could it be that Thor hadn't yet discovered all the features of the new, improved version of the damn Szatty ship until now?

Keeping an eye out for the Szartjol's troops, Jack checked the status of the rest of his team.

Ferretti and Kawalsky had taken cover beneath a crumbling rock and were now steadily taking out the green bastards.

An artillery shell from a howitzer had momentarily split the Zuu'lesq's ranks and in that gap, he saw his opportunity.

It was time to get behind enemy lines. And hopefully, save the whole world with the help of a tiny Roswell grey.

He signalled for the Ferretti and Kawalsky to move closer to the Szartjol.

"Time to go, Carter," Jack yelled above the din, creeping his way across the rocks, swiftly calculating the odds of getting past those green things.

It was doable, he noted in grim satisfaction, but it would take a move either so foolhardy or so stupid to go ahead with it.

It was right up his alley.

"With me, Carter?"

"All the way, Sir."

He radioed the other two members of the team in response and yelled into the mike. "Kawalsky, Ferretti, cover us from the entrance, we're going in!"

Then they ran. Gun fire meeting energy pulses. Two soldiers clad in desert browns in a sea of green.

"Come on, Carter!"

"Yes, Sir!" She automatically replied, squeezing off more rounds as she saw him near the entrance of the transport.

Reverting to a relationship of CO and subordinate came more easily than she had expected as she sprinted towards the gap, providing covering fire for Ferretti and Kawalsky as she saw them run a distance towards the Szartjol. The weeks she and Jack had spent together had given them a measure of wordless communication, their actions almost seamlessly blending as a single unit.

Sam looked up, seeing Jack having just breached the ship's entrance. She stood up from her crouch, then followed him in.

* * *

"Chief, what do you have?"

"General, this…this is unbelievable. Radar readings show that a squadron of star fighters from the second cluster of ships has arrived from Earth's upper atmosphere, and they are now attacking the enemy crafts."

Hammond nodded, wondering if the tide of the battle had somehow turned in their favour.

If they did somehow survive this unprecedented attack, he was going to put in his retirement papers at the end of it all.

Life was too short to not enjoy the rest of his time on Earth with his granddaughters.

* * *

The coolness and the silence of the cavernous interior was an abrupt but not unwelcome change from the din of battle. The whole chamber was glowing green, Sam realised, as it appeared to draw energy from its generators, the consoles lining the walls emitting the various notifications broadcasted by the motherships' communication pods.

In front of the consoles, the holographic tactical display was lit, the blinking green and yellow lights showing a visual analysis of the geology and the lay of the Nevada desert; next to it, corresponding reports scrolled up quickly in an alien text.

God, the science of it all was amazing and if only she could just-

"Carter!"

His voice shook her out of her scientific wonder. Now wasn't the time, she reminded herself ruefully.

Jack was already running to the blast doors that were open from the starboard side of the Szartjol, just as she realised that the transporter had most likely discharged its last soldiers into the fray.

The lights blinked out a section at a time, leaving a low hum that grew steadily in volume and pitch.

The ship's power was gradually being re-routed. But to…where?

She followed Jack's trail then stopped in her tracks, suddenly realising that the transfer of energy was in fact, the a portal or a channel of sorts that was drawing all the ship's energy in preparation for the implantation of the heavy element deep into the Earth's core.

She had heard what Thor had said to Jack. And it was happening too fast for her liking.

He had turned around to see if she was following, stopping when she did.

"Come on, Carter."

"Oh my god, Jack," she breathed, forgetting their military ranks for a moment, "the ship's probably on auto-pilot. It's programmed to start the heavy compound transfer into the Earth's surface after all the ground troops leave!"

"Not gonna happen on my watch, Carter," he replied flatly, then turned back to wind his way down the south-western corridors of the Szartjol.

Damn, that route was a lot longer than it looked when Thor had showed him the schematics of the ship.

A quick turn right, then a slope down, then an upward incline leading to another empty hallway.

Carter was right on his heels, readying the C4 as she ran.

Finally, they hit a long but narrow corridor that stretched for what seemed like miles. Jack recognised its physical dimensions, having already once seen its floor plans.

* * *

"Sir, ground troops vessel has dispatched what looks like the last contingent of troops."

"Tell Colonel Smithson to hold the line of fire. I repeat, hold the line of fire. Keep the alien troops within five miles of striking range."

Hammond stood rigid in front of the big screen, lost in thought. He had taken a risk and sent O'Neill's team into the enemy ship, not knowing whether he'd condemned both them and Earth to a fiery end.

All they had were Asgard reassurances to O'Neill that the humans of Earth had their help. Seeing them down the onslaught of enemy fighters, it looked as though they were keeping their promises.

"Sir!" A harried voice brought his out of his sombre musings.

"Report, Harriman!"

"Sensors detect a convergence of energy cells in the main core of the alien vessel. Sir, it appears that the ground ship is preparing to strike a major blow."

"Patch me in," Hammond ordered. "Colonel O'Neill, do you read me?"

A burst of static was his only response.

"The vessel's shields are affecting communication systems, Sir."

Hammond pursed his lips and remained silent.

* * *

Not far now. Jack heard her hard breathing behind him, her footsteps pounding along the strange metal floor, reassured by her watching his six again.

A minute and a half later, the corridor opened up into a high-ceilinged, hexagonal compartment, in the centre of which stood a colossal, tree-like structure of plasma lights and fibre tubes that spanned the entire height of the Szartjol.

Synchronising the timer with her watch, Sam slapped several blocks of C4 onto the generators, then nodded her satisfaction.

"Three minutes, starting…Now!"

They took off in the reverse direction, spurred on by the countdown, consciously pushing their strides faster and longer. Jack calculated would take them about three minutes and twenty-seven seconds to get the hell out of the Szartjol.

It was going to be close.

He radioed Kawalsky and Ferretti. "Three minutes to detonation! Retreat to base camp. I repeat, retreat to base camp."

Two minutes, five seconds.

A sonic boom shattered the unnaturally still air in the Szartjol as they started to run down the incline, causing them to fall face down as a wall supporting the inner chambers collapsed to reveal another battalion of the Zuu'lesq troops.

One minute, forty-four seconds.

The Zuu'lesq soldiers were armed and ready, lifting their weapons.

Last of the soldiers, my ass, he thought.

The pathway spilt into two, and without breaking stride, he shoved Carter into the other corridor that had opened before them as the beams of the Zuu'lesq weapons ricocheted around the inner chamber, his mind frantically flicking through any escape routes, then realised that Thor hadn't shown him any.

Fifty seconds.

He was clean out of ammo in the P-90. Quickly switching to the SPAS 12, Jack busied himself by thinking of creative ways to kick Thor's little grey butt hard into the next galaxy.

Thirty-four seconds.

He soon came to realise that the corridor led in circles. It wound right, curved inwards then led them back to where they were.

Thirty seconds of wasted time as they ran themselves ragged in a maze.

Seventeen seconds.

_Shit._

"Got a Plan B?" Sam yelled when they came back out, then ground to a halt, causing him to run into her back. Hard.

The unexpected force of him ploughing into her back pushed her to her knees, her hands scrambling to break the fall.

"Carter, what the fu-"

She waved him silent from that unlikely position, looking at the consoles that had just signalled the beginning of the implantation process. His eyes followed the object that had caught her attention, the sense of dread and panic growing from deep within his gut when he realised what it was.

_Godammit._

Seven seconds.

Jack turned to her to find her already looking at him, their expressions mirroring each other's, conveying a thousand feelings where words failed.

Three seconds.

Caught between the devil and the deep blue sea. If Thor wasn't able to pull another miracle out of his grey ass, they'd be fried in three seconds. Unless it had been Thor's intention all along for him and his team to go on a one-way ticket into the damn alien ship with no way out. The damn Roswell grey hadn't really made it clear, beaming him down before he could get his sentence in edgewise.

The Asgard really needed to work on their communication issues, he groused unhappily to himself.

Two.

_Damn it! Son-of-a-bitch!_ A sudden thought came to him…he turned it quickly over in his head, weighing its merit. Had the communication stone been a means to their escape? Or maybe that was exactly what Thor had really meant….?

One.

In that sudden, heart-stopping moment, he thought the C4 had failed. Then he felt the beginnings of an explosion in the shield-generator chamber as he grabbed the forgotten oval stone and placed it near his mouth, yelling into it at the top of his voice.

"Thor!"

An advancing ball of fire rushed through the corridors of the Szartjol, licking its way through the heavy metal walls, pressing inwards, closing the distance.

Their bodies dematerialised in a flash of light just as the violent explosion tore through the ship's main generators. Then the Biliskner's ion cannons pierced the atmosphere, vaporising the Szartjol's sensitive hull, obliterating layers of heavy metals and electrical conduits into a superheated cloud of gas and dust in areas that the C4 hadn't reached.

* * *

"Report, Chief."

"The ground ship is exploding, Sir! This…this is unbelievable. Another grey ship was briefly seen between the clouds, firing a beam-like weapon of sorts at the enemy ship!"

"What about the ground soldiers? Colonel O'Neill relayed the news that eliminating their power supply would cause the alien beings to cease functioning."

"The alien troops are…" the technician squinted at the visual feed. "They're disappearing, Sir. I…I think that's…that's it! I can't believe it! It's over."

The General shut his eyes, willing his breathing to slow. "Thank you, Sergeant."

* * *

They re-materialised in the command centre a second later, drawing for the second time, identical looks of shock and wonder from everyone.

Then they were swamped with numerous handshakes and euphoric hugs that people tripped over to give them.

Not that Sam could remember much of it, having spent the entire congratulatory moment in a befuddled daze.

The Stargate…Jack…Hammond…the attack on Earth…how had it all come to this?

She stole a glance at the man who had helped do the impossible, wondering if he felt the same as she did.

Then Jack turned and winked at her, their eyes meeting and holding as they exchanged a long, meaningful look that was equal parts disbelief and joy in the midst of the standing ovation and the wild cheers.


	29. Chapter 29

**Chapter 28**

**Stargate Command, Briefing Room  
Cheyenne Mountain Complex  
Colorado Springs  
30 October 1995**

The meetings were interminably long, and the coffee, constantly atrocious.

Jack had been ready to hightail it out of the briefing room after days of endless discussions on Earth's future when a sharp look from Hammond had stayed his ass.

He took a sip of the brown liquid, wincing at its burnt flavour and tried his best to stay awake. The scratchy feel of the dress blues and the sharp medals that poked his flesh helped a bit.

On the opposite side of the table, Carter was already hiding her amused smirk into her hand.

The Secretary of Defence was talking. Again. With a voice squeakier than a church mouse, it was easy to tune him out, like many of those who had taken their turns to speak.

Perhaps he'd spend part of his monetary reward getting a new coffee machine for the commissary doing that grand gesture that would make many people indebted to him. Especially since he'd learnt that not only had his retirement been indefinitely postponed and that he was now seconded to the ring project, which had, to his disgust, been unimaginatively renamed Stargate Command.

It was then announced that Hammond was slated to replace West, his move for retirement now absolutely refused given his part in the Zuu'lesq-Earth battle a few days ago.

Upon hearing that, Jack knew somehow that the powers that be had a sense of humour.

There were meetings and more meetings, all of which aimed to work out the kinks of military accountability, fine-tune the command structure and increase the layers of transparency. To his horror, the President had instead, ordered the formation of the National Intelligence Department, a civilian oversight committee to act as a counterbalance to the military's involvement in the SGC.

It was a unanimous agreement that the Stargate was now, in fact, a necessity for Earth's front-line defence. With the impetus for opening the gate already publicly justified by the recent but unexpected invasion, the SGC's primary mission was going to be, for the foreseeable future, the exploration of the unknown in order to procure alien technologies to bolster Earth's defence systems. The starting budget for the run of the project, while generous, would come under the review of the Senate Appropriations Committee that had the right to veto any structural change in the command, headed by the recently-elected Senator Robert Kinsey.

He and Hammond had a bad feeling about it. In all the negotiations that were ongoing, it was increasingly clear that there was too much room for giving and taking, too many grey areas left in the spaces between the lines of all the agreements and bills.

Officially however, it was the opening of a new chapter in Earth's first forays into intergalactic politics after the Zuu'lesq's defeat mostly with the help of Thor and the Asgard fleet, who had somehow deigned to assign Jack as a representative of the planet, a fact with which he was immensely uncomfortable.

But Jack had to admit that they were living in exciting times. Fraught with dangers ahead, but brilliantly thrilling nonetheless.

There had also been a 'the-world-is-saved' party deep under the mountain the day after the Zuu'lesq ships had been destroyed, the only bright points of which were the copious amount of chocolate cake and red jello.

Jack had actually liked the post-dinner celebration at Carter's house even more, the memory of which was making him stifle his grin in a room full of tight-asses. It had been beyond strange to walk into her small abode when, two months ago, he had downed a man in this very space and dragged her out on a limb.

The full circle that he had trodden had felt like a lifetime.

A slight poke of his foot coming from under the table's opposite side told him that Hammond was finally wrapping up this one. He looked up to see Carter innocently blinking at him.

"Colonel O'Neill, Captain Carter, the President has personally ordered the formation of nine teams, whose duties will be to perform reconnaissance, determine threats and if possible, to make peaceful contact with cultures of alien worlds that you are going to encounter. Your team will be designated SG-1. The team will consist of yourself, Captain Carter, Major Kawalsky-"

"With all due respect, Sir," Carter had interrupted the General, "if we are indeed going to explore alien worlds, then wouldn't it be necessary for each team to have a civilian expert on languages and cultures? A team consisting of just military ranks would be of no use to us if we can't even communicate on a basic level. More importantly, we might need help getting back to Earth and sometimes, there is no guarantee that the GPS equipment will be able to function normally under different atmospheric pressures or climates."

Hammond frowned, recognising the soundness of her argument. The top brass hadn't even thought of this. "What are you suggesting, Captain?"

"I might have an idea, Sir," she answered with a smile.

* * *

**Memorial Hospital Central  
Colorado Springs  
3 November 1995**

The start of the day was always the hardest. People somehow always got banged up during the night and came to the hospital with a myriad of injuries that would make even the best of doctors wondering why they did what they did.

Dr. Janet Fraiser was making her second round on the second-floor wards when a tall figure stopped her in her stride.

"Jack!" She exclaimed in surprise, her astonished gaze turning into undisguised appreciation. "You know, I always had a soft spot for those dress blues."

Sam had said the exact same thing last night when she'd– _Focus_, _O'Neill_. He smirked in reply. "Hey doc. I'm sure you're not the only one with that weakness."

"You look good."

The usual sternness she found in his face had relaxed into a ruggedly handsome softness – if soft was even a word that anyone could apply to Jack O'Neill – but it was the sheer lack of visible injuries that actually made her quite happy for once to be having a normal conversation with him.

So, what do I owe the pleasure of this meeting?" Janet asked curiously, fingering the clipboard that contained all her patients' dietary requirement.

He had to be here on official business; he wouldn't be dressed this way otherwise.

"Could we go somewhere more private for this?" He looked around, then back at her pointedly.

"Of course. My office."

Jack was already holding out an official-looking envelope to her as she was closing the door.

"What's this?"

"Go on, have a look," he urged, then leaned back in the seat that he'd taken.

She pulled the papers out curiously, realising that it was a contract of sorts. All it needed was her signature if she agreed to it.

Oh god, was it really…? The opportunity to head her own medical team, to be the first to witness the breakthroughs in medical science…

"It's a good deal," Jack said nonchalantly, watching her closely. "Just in case you find your job here boring and want to get back to patching up more sorry soldiers who will be coming your way."

She exhaled sharply. "I was right the first time around, Jack."

He looked slightly puzzled. "What about?"

"That you are really more than who you seem to be. A bigger man than what most people see," she clarified.

He flushed, waving her honest and flattering assessment away in what looked like embarrassment. "So?"

"So what?" She teased, seeing him huff in annoyance.

Jack gestured wordlessly to the papers in front of her. "So, doc, I'm supposed to bring back an answer that would please the top brass."

She stared at him, knowing that he was presenting the opportunity of a lifetime. "You know, I might just consider it."

* * *

**University of Chicago  
Department of Archaeology  
Chicago, Illinois  
6 November 1995**

Dr. Daniel Jackson juggled the stack of mid-term papers with a large mug of instant coffee, trying to keep his eyes open after having spent yet another sleepless night wrestling with more translations that hadn't seemed to make much sense.

Turning the corner, he walked straight into a rushing student.

Shouting in agony as the hot coffee sloshed over his hands and over the papers, he turned around and glared at the rapidly shrinking figure who was already past the library's entrance in the distance.

He slowed his strides considerably, not wanting a repeat of the previous incident, which was, admittedly, not the first time that it happened when he found himself lost in thought.

When Daniel reached his office door, he inserted a key, then gingerly twisted the knob using an acrobatic move of knees and elbows that he'd long mastered after learning the hard way that coffee tended to spill no matter how stable the mug appeared to be.

He stopped short to see two officers clad in formal dress blues, waiting patiently on the small, worn out couch that had seen better days.

The first one was familiar – Captain Samantha Carter – that woman who looked so ill at ease the day he'd met her a few months ago. She stood and smiled when he walked in.

The other was an older, brown-haired man who had also stood when he entered the room.

A frown creased his features beneath the large, round glasses.

"How did you…?" He started, wondering how they got into his office when it was locked. "Never mind."

"The department office's secretary showed us in, Dr. Jackson," the man replied, holding his hand out in greeting. "I'm Colonel Jack O'Neill and this," he gestured to the blond next to him, "is Captain Samantha Carter, whom you've already met."

Captain Carter's greeting was warmer. She stepped forward to give him a quick hug, then pulled away with the smile still lingering on her face.

"Hi, Daniel."

They were here on official business.

That made him uneasy. But just as he was about to speak, the lock of hair got in the way again. He pushed it out of his eyes, then asked in curiosity punctuated with a slight, nervous chuckle, "So what's this about again? More translations? The Air Force deciding that archaeologists are suddenly needed?"

The two officers looked at each other without speaking, then faced him.

"Actually, yes, Dr. Jackson. We have a job offer for you."


	30. Chapter 30

_A/N: That's it from me. Thanks for reading!_

* * *

**Epilogue**

**Northern Minnesota  
20 November 1995**

The radio blared out pop classics one minute, then opera the next.

It was the compromise that they'd found when they worked together.

Her fingers were freezing despite the portable heater that she'd brought along. "Damn, it's cold."

All Sam got was a curious look from him. "Not used to it?"

"Will probably never get used to it, actually," she huffed as a spot of varnish went where it wasn't supposed to.

"Then get toasty in front of the fire."

She threw him an exasperated look. "I'm not done yet."

Jack shrugged and said, "Take a break."

He climbed down the ladder where it leant against a wall, dusting off the cobwebs that had stuck to his plaid shirt, then disappeared into the kitchen that was finally functioning like one after days of work on it.

He handed her an enormous cup of blue jello and received a brilliant smile in response, as she put aside the paintbrush and sat on a dry surface next to him.

"This is great."

"Told ya."

Honed from those days when they had no one else but each other to lean on, their intimate communication had always tended to be wordless, their sentences casual but heavy with subtext.

The fragility of the first days had fled, where she had wondered if they had a thing going on, something that she'd gathered her courage and asked about on the day Hammond had reinstated the both of them. His answer had stopped all doubts the night after the party under the mountain. The coming days, while exciting, were never more uncertain. It made every day all the more precious, the uncertainty of the future bringing into focus how much they needed each other as much as the world needed them.

A week after the SGC had been announced as an official division of NORAD, they found themselves on the road again after making the impulsive decision late that night to go up north.

Sam hadn't expected to be back there so soon, helping Jack to redo the cabin when he'd insisted on starting early. Admittedly, she hadn't had that much fun in a long time, working with her hands, spending every day of the three weeks' downtime in the cabin with him, clearing the old furniture, re-surfacing the floorboards and redesigning the living spaces.

Break times consisted of them trying to fish, only to discover there was no fish in that pod.

The work went faster than Jack thought it would have gone, thanks to Sam's ingenious organisation and remarkable efficiency when it came to getting the materials in order. He'd joked that she would make a good contractor if she ever got tired of science.

The cabin would be fully done by next spring, a quiet haven constructed especially so that there was a place both of them could escape to each time a period of downtime came along.

"This is unbelievable," she murmured.

"What? The jello?" He asked teasingly. "I would have bought more boxes had I known you liked it that much."

It earned him another fondly exasperated look, a look he liked seeing on her face.

"This," she said and swept her arm out across. "Us. Everything."

Jack looked around, suddenly seeing all the possibilities that were open to them, all the things that had been so far beyond his reach only a short while ago.

"Yeah," he answered finally, his voice strangely hoarse. "A guy could get used to this."

- Fin -


End file.
